


Shooting Star

by trufflemores_Glee_fic



Category: Glee
Genre: Angst, Family, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Shooting Star
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-05 22:54:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 30,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11587866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trufflemores_Glee_fic/pseuds/trufflemores_Glee_fic
Summary: 4.18 AU.  What if Blaine was shot?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everybody! After receiving multiple requests to repost my old Glee fics, I have created a second AO3 account to do so. I hope you can forgive me for flooding the Glee pages over the next few days. 
> 
> I also ask for kindness regarding the quality of these fics. Over on my main AO3 account (trufflemores), I have written over 150 Flash fics; end result, my current work is of a higher quality than these older pieces. But I know how beloved old fics can be, and I respect that something I consider sub-par can be someone else's favorite. 
> 
> So I hope you enjoy this fic and any others you choose to read. If you choose to do so, I would also be happy to have you on board 'The Flash' bandwagon as well.
> 
> Kick back, relax, and enjoy. You have been one of the greatest audiences I have ever had.
> 
> Affectionately yours,  
> trufflemores

To say that Blaine wasn't having the best morning would be an understatement. His hair was a mess, sloppily gelled down after a hasty run through of his morning routine after his alarm failed to wake him up. He'd skipped his usual cup of coffee in lieu of arriving mere moments before the first bell. Already in a formidable mood due to a headache he couldn't shake and a sinking feeling about a physics' test he had neglected to study for (he'd fallen asleep in the midst of an English essay some time last night), he didn't want to think about anything other than Glee club and his first three classes.

"Dude," Sam said, startling him enough that he smacked his elbow against the edge of the locker, wincing as he pulled out the books he needed for his first three classes. "I thought we were going to meet before school to talk about Glee club?"

"I know, I know," Blaine assured, waving a hand absentmindedly and ignoring the sting in his elbow as he rummaged through his locker for a list of songs. "Here, tell me which ones you like and we'll go from there, okay?" he added distractedly, handing the sheet of paper to Sam and already darting off to his first class as the bell rang.

Thankfully, his economics teacher never seemed to mind if he listened or slept, so he spent the time alternately texting Kurt under the table and reviewing some of his physics' notes. Unconvinced that the improvised studying would do much good, he felt his stomach sink when the bell rang, gathering his materials hastily into his satchel and darting out the door.

"Woah," Joe chided, catching him mid-step. "Easy, dude."

"Sorry," Blaine said, already running interference mentally as he saw Marley approaching.

"You look frazzled," she greeted, reaching up to playfully tweak his hair as she linked their arms. "What happened? Bad night?"

"Bad morning," Blaine corrected, forcing himself to slow down to match pace. His next class wasn't far, his urgency unfounded, but the lack of caffeine in his system made him antsy, destructive. All he wanted to do was find the nearest coffeeshop and chug a medium drip until he felt normal.

Maybe I should back off the coffee, he mused, recalling Kurt's lackadaisical comments about his addiction. He'd introduced Kurt to the splendors of drinking coffee regularly, and while Kurt wasn't complaining when he offered to pick up the bill when they went out, he'd mentioned on more than one occasion his general dislike for Blaine's blatant over-consumption. It wasn't that he needed it, Blaine reminded himself, nodding along to something Marley was saying. He just -- he craved it. On mornings when he had too much on his mind and too little time, he needed it.

Politely excusing himself at the bell with promises to talk more in Glee club, he squeezed her hand lightly before darting off to his next class. He managed to slide in unnoticed to one of the back rows, quietly pulling out his text book and notes and breathing a soft sigh of relief when he noticed that it was a sub.

Letting his head rest on his cupped hand was a mistake, he reflected, his chin hitting the table hard as his arm slipped some time later. Several heads turned at the sound, their English professor pausing mid-lecture before resuming seamlessly. Blinking sleep-heavy eyes slowly, Blaine tried to refocus, forcing himself to take notes as he listened, nodding along and offering a quiet response when she called on him.

Still, his head ached and his mouth was dry by the time class was dismissed. Feet dragging, he was relieved to find the hallways relatively quiet as he made the short trek between the English department and the choir room. Half of the New Directions were already present, chatting among themselves while Blaine idled slowly into the room, bee-lining for Sam and Brad.

"There you are," Sam said, draping an arm thoughtlessly around Blaine's shoulders as he drew them into their huddle. "Okay, so, I'm all for Mamma Mia - "

Blaine let him ramble, belatedly recalling that his input was required as Sam gave him a little shake. "Sounds great," he said, smiling even when Sam frowned and let him go, propelling him towards the piano. He slid onto the bench next to Brad, ignoring his side-eye as he ran his fingers over the keys perfunctorily.

It took a few moments to get adjusted to it, to slow down enough to remember where he was and what he was doing, but once he did, it was immensely calming. There was something about the choir room that just made him feel - safe. Protected. Like he could set a part of himself free and trust the others not to let others abuse it. Like he could let himself go.

Sam's diction from the center of the room was a calming backdrop to his thoughts, letting him drift without fully severing his ties to reality. He'd been in and out of hyper focus for weeks now, struggling to balance Kurt and everything else.

He'd known that his problem was relying too much on Kurt and their relationship. He'd needed to break away a little, to find a healthy balance that would enable him to set goals for himself that he could attain without outward support. He'd needed to drop his dependency on Kurt's friendship alone and find others closer to him that he could rely upon. He'd needed to step back and re-evaluate his choices, and ultimately, he'd made changes.

But he hadn't let Kurt go. In the midst of it all, he'd never gotten over him. He'd never wanted to, either.

And now that Kurt was finally letting him back in, giving him a chance ... he wasn't going to let that go, either.

Even if it meant sleepless nights, cold sheets, and empty spaces.

He didn't realize he'd dozed off again until he almost hit the keys, his head jerking up as Sam clapped his hands together. "Any questions?"

"I have one," Kitty said sweetly, lowering her raised hand. "Did the hobbit catch any of that?"

The back of Blaine's neck flushed as he straightened on the bench. "Of course I did," he responded coolly, refusing to give ground. "We're taking musical numbers that we don't traditionally see ourselves performing and putting them on display. This is a week about acceptance of those quirkier sides to ourselves." Shrugging, he finished, "It's a guilty pleasures' week."

"Exactly," Sam said, relieved and pleased. "Any other questions? No? Awesome. So, that just leaves us to our next topic of discussion - "

Blaine zoned out again as Sam wrote Regionals on the board, letting the conversation wash over him until the Glee clubbers moved to gather their things. Sliding off the bench and pulling his satchel over one shoulder, he barely made it two steps before Sam put a hand over his shoulder, stopping him in place.

"Are you okay?"

Blaine frowned, tugging his arm out from under him. "Of course I am," he murmured. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Sam shrugged, letting go. "You've been zoning out a lot lately."

"Just haven't been sleeping well," Blaine dismissed, striding quickly to the door. "Kurt and I - " He bit his lip, swallowed, and finished quietly, "We talk."

"That's cool, dude," Sam said. "Just make sure you don't forget about us, too, okay? With Finn and Mr. Schuester gone, we need you now more than ever."

"I know." Then, resting one hand on the door frame and turning to look back at Sam, "I know."

"Good," was all Sam said.

Blaine left him, then, crossing the distance separating him and his next class before promptly dozing off. He trudged off to lunch, sliding onto his usual seat between Joe and Sugar on the bench, ignoring their idle chatter as he picked over his baby carrots. He forced himself to eat them after a time, one by one, bite by bite, until they were finished.

It didn't help.

His headache didn't abate in the slightest with the added onslaught of a hundred of students chattering among themselves, and he quietly excused himself after a moment with a murmured promise to return. He picked up his tray and dumped its contents in the nearest bin, ignoring the concerned look Tina cast his way. He'd already survived a chest cold, and a dozen other minor hassles in between. He could manage the day-to-day stress of living at McKinley. He could.

Slipping in to the library, he selected the most comfortable arm chair he could find and pulled out his phone, already sending off a text to Kurt.

It took Kurt ten minutes to respond, a quick vibration jolting Blaine out of his reverie. He smiled at the It's good! Isabelle's finally back, thank God, before typing out a reply to his inquiry about Glee club.

He reluctantly pocketed his phone at the lunch bell, assuring Kurt that he would Skype him later, or call him, or something. They'd made it a ritual, to talk more, to think more about them and respect each other's boundaries. They weren't as close as they once were - Blaine knew, in some small, dark corner of his heart, that they never would be, not in the same way - but they were closer. Closer than they had been. Close enough to breathe again.

"I'm telling you, it's like the Mayan apocalypse," Brittany was insisting as he stepped out of the library, Sam frowning pensively at her as she gesticulated. "I watched the History channel and it's totally true this time."

"I'm pretty sure the last time that happened was like, during the dinosaurs," Sam said slowly, leaning against the wall as Blaine walked by. "You know, the one that wiped everything out fifty five millions years ago."

"Sixty five," Blaine corrected reflexively, drawing two sets of eyes as he repeated, "It wiped everything out sixty five million years ago."

"There's three hundred and sixty five days in a year," Brittany insisted, refusing to be deterred. "It's the sixty fifth day, the same day that the asteroid wiped out the dinosaurs."

"Britt - "

Blaine didn't hear the click. He didn't hear the first scream.

All he heard was the shot.

And then he felt red as his shoulder turned into a sunburst of pain.

He hit the floor before he heard the next scream.


	2. Chapter 2

Sam's first instinct is to run.

He hears screaming. Distantly, he's aware of Brittany grabbing his arm in a vice-like grip and tugging him down, down, down as two more shots are fired in quick succession. Students jockey for classrooms, floors, even lockers, cramming themselves into the smallest spaces as other flee en masse. There isn't a moment to think about rationality - get low, stay low, get out - only horror and disbelief at the reality. A thin, warbling cry of distress echoes from down the hall and the panic spreads as a lone wolf darts through their midst, armed and awakened.

We have to get out.

We have to get out, we have to get out, we have to -

"Sam!"

Brittany slaps him full across the face, and he startles, blinking, realizing belatedly that he's tightened his grip around her arm hard enough to leave small, crescent-shaped prints on her flesh. Opening his mouth to apologize, he realizes that she isn't looking at him, instead staring at the hunched, shuddering figure on the floor.

"Oh my God," Sam blurts, vision tunneling briefly at the sight of blood on the floor. On Blaine.

"We have to get out of here," he says. He doesn't pause long enough to think about it, rudely shoved aside as someone plows him out of the way. It takes him a moment to realize that he hasn't said anything, that Brittany is speaking, already moving forward to pull Blaine into the protective shield of her arms.

Blood pools over her fingers when she presses them against the back of his shirt.

Sam swallows back bile and scrambles forward, hand fumbling for his phone as more shouting and grappling takes place down the hall. He doesn't know what's going on - he can't see straight, think straight, breathe - but he sees Coach Beiste amid the fray, a bloody streak flashing across his vision as her arm flashes forward, bearing someone else down.

It doesn't matter, nothing matters, not with the panic expanding outward around them, pandemonium reaching a feverish pitch as the news spreads like wildfire throughout the halls.

"Sam," a sharp voice says, pulling him back, away from the white noise that wants to engulf him. He turns his head, and Brittany's there, placing a gentle hand on his knee and giving it a tight squeeze. "Sam. Get help."

Sam nods, pressing call with a shaking finger.

"Hello, nine-one-one, what's your emergency?"

His first three attempts to push out words fail. "Help," he manages at last, the word coming out as more a breath than anything.

"Sir?"

"There was - there was a shooting, we need help, we need help," he says, realizing that he's rambling and trying to focus. "Gun. There's a gunman, I don't know where he is, please - "

"Sir, I need you to specify your location."

"Will - William McKinley High School, Montgomery and West 22nd." The address rattles off his lips with surprising ease, his hand reaching forward instinctively to brace Blaine as he crumples in Brittany's grasp, her own grip tightening anxiously. "Please. Please, hurry."

"We're sending dispatch now," the operator assures.

"Please. Please, he's bleeding, we need - "

"Stay with me. What's your name?"

"Bla - Sam, Sam Evans. He's hurt, oh God."

"Can you describe the injury?"

Sam shakes his head. "He got hit," is all he manages.

"Where did he get hit? With what?"

"He got shot in the shoulder," Sam says, dropping his phone when another curse is shouted somewhere down the hallway. He's panicking and he knows it, but he can't calm down, can't even think outside we need to get out of here, now, now, now.

When the EMTs finally arrive, he lets the darkness, the thoughtlessness take over.

* * *

"Shh, shh," Brittany says, her hands clinging to the back of Blaine's shirt. "Shh."

He won't stop screaming. Part of her wants to shake him until he stops, but he's hurt and she can't hurt him more. She can't. So she pulls him into a hug instead, because she needs to. She presses against the wound on the back of his shoulder, instinctively needing to heal, to preserve.

To buy more time.

Any other day, Santana would have appeared in seconds, crouching down beside them and drawing Brittany into the warm circle of her arms while someone else took care of Blaine.

But that was another time, back when Santana was still at McKinley with her, and this was now.

Sam hasn't moved. He's cold to the touch, Brittany notices, when she reaches forward to shake him. He doesn't respond, staring blankly, glassily ahead until she loses patience and screams at him.

"Sam!"

He finally notices her, then, notices them, face paling as he obeys her command.

Get help.

Get Santana. Get Kurt. Get someone.

Anyone.

Get help.

* * *

It's summer time.

It's late summer and they're sitting out in Kurt's backyard.

It's pleasantly warm.

There's a faint breeze that smells like a freshly mowed lawn.

Kurt picks a dandelion slowly apart as he talks idly, quietly about his future, about his life - about nothing at all.

Blaine leans back on his hands, grass-stained and warm, and smiles.

Kurt playfully tucks the neatly plucked stem behind his ear, leaning forward when Blaine captures the collar of his shirt in a gentle hand and tugs him inexorably closer.

They go down slowly, down, down, down.

They hold each other.

When they kiss, Blaine feels at peace.

And Kurt smiles.

It's all very beautiful.

* * *

"What are we?"

"What do you want to be?"

"I want to be with you."

"Is that all?"

"I want to be right for you."

"Are you sure?"

"With all my heart."

"You know, catering to my romantic side won't win you any favors."

"I know."

Quiet.

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

They kiss, and as Blaine curls his arms around Kurt and pulls him down gently, the sheets rustling beneath them, their tuxes discarded somewhere around the room, he lets himself hope.

* * *

Kurt is standing in front of a train.

He looks back at Blaine, smiles once sadly, and takes Adam Crawford's hand to board.

They share one brief kiss on the platform.

And a small part of Blaine's soul quietly withers away.

* * *

"Did you ever think it would be like this?"

"Be like what?" Kurt breathes, resting his cheek against Blaine's shoulder and smiling, so devastatingly happy.

"Our wedding. Did you ever think it would be like this?"

They sway together.

Kurt's smile grows and he leans forward, breathing for Blaine's ears alone, "Always," before kissing him.

* * *

"He's going to forgive you."

Blaine tilts his head vaguely in the direction of the voice, staring at the crumpled dandelion in front of himself.

Cooper approaches, rests a hand on his shoulder, insists, "He's going to forgive you."

"He won't."

"I know Kurt."

"I know him."

"He's going to forgive you," is all Cooper says, squeezing his shoulder before walking away.

Blaine lets the dandelion slip through his fingers, eyes closed when he finally allows the tears to come.

* * *

"Hey. Hey, look at me."

Sam blinks, staring fuzzily ahead at the smiling woman. "Hey. It's okay. What's your name?"

"Sam," he says. He has no voice, he realizes with dull unconcern. It's barely a whisper. "Sam Evans."

"Sam? Hey. Can you look at me?"

He frowns, then, redirects his gaze as they ease Blaine on to a stretcher, working in a flurry of movements. "Sam?" the woman asks again, politely. He turns away as they hook Blaine up to an IV. He's never been a fan of needles.

The woman smiles again, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. "Hey, bud. You're doing great. Okay?"

"I'm not great," he says, inanely.

"You're doing fine. We're going to take care of your friend, okay?"

"Okay."

"Can you squeeze my hand?"

It takes two tries, but he manages it.

"That's good. You're doing great, Sam. Do you feel dizzy?"

He nods, because his tongue feels heavy in his mouth and he can't see past the swarm of EMTs. He wants to look away, but it's like a train wreck, impossible to ignore. The woman squeezes his hand again, offering him a small Dixie cup of water.

He takes and spills half of it before managing a single sip.

It helps. Somehow.

"Thank you," he says. It actually makes it past his throat this time. "What happened?"

"We're still trying to figure that out," the woman says, setting the empty cup aside. "You're safe now."

No, I'm not, he wants to say.

He says nothing.

"We're going to keep you safe," the woman assures.

You can't.

"Your friend is in good hands. We'll take care of him."

Will you?

"Is he going to die?" Sam asks at last, distant, unable to draw his gaze away from the boy on the stretcher as they settle an oxygen mask over his face and push the stretcher down the hallway. Their pace seems agonizingly slow.

Sam almost tells them to run.

He doesn't.

Instead, he pushes himself to his feet and - after letting the woman steady him with both hands, doubtless ready to ease him to the ground if he faints again - rushes after them.

"Hey," he says, because Blaine's eyes are slits, still there, still with them. "Hey. Hey, look at me. Look at me. It's okay." Sam squeezes his hand hard, repeating, "Hey. It's okay. I've got you and I'm not gonna let go, okay?"

He doesn't know how he makes it to the back of the ambulance, only aware of stating brusquely that he's eighteen, he's eighteen, before curt admittance is granted.

"I'm not gonna let go," he repeats, squeezing Blaine's hand hard enough to elicit a quiet whine. Blaine's head tilts sluggishly in his direction, foggy hazel eyes staring out at him. "It's gonna be okay," Sam says, not knowing where he finds the strength to look Blaine in the eye, let alone speak, and he feels some of his tension unwind as Blaine inclines his head once, infinitesimally.

It's gonna be okay.

And then Blaine's eyelids slide shut and Sam can only cling desperately to his hand as they're pulled out into the storm.

He isn't sure whose head stays above water. He doesn't even know if he's rescuing Blaine, grounding him, or drowning him.

He knows that Blaine is there.

And that grounds him.

That keeps him from drowning.


	3. Chapter 3

It was such a normal day.

Starting at five in the morning, Santana claimed the coveted first shower after arguing with Rachel for the better part of half an hour. Kurt made his first cup of coffee while they were doing so, humming quietly along with his iPod as he scanned his text messages, responding to several sent by Blaine and another pair sent by Adam. He stepped away from his iPod to call Isabelle and confirm his availability for the weekend, triple checking his NYADA schedule as he did so.

By seven, he was stepping into the stall, letting out a deep breath as hot water cascaded over him, immersed him. It didn't last long, of course - the girls used up most of the hot water - but he scrubbed quickly and rinsed his hair thoroughly before turning the water off before it had a chance to run cold.

Taking care with his morning grooming routine, he savored his moments alone with the empty loft. Adam texted him again as he was finishing up a moisturizer, quickly wiping his hands off on a towel before responding that he would love to meet him for coffee, where at?

He followed Adam's instructions and met him at quarter to eight, spending the time chatting amiably while sipping a peppermint mocha. Adam smiled and explained his plans for the Adam's Apples while Kurt nodded along, occasionally pausing to send off a quick text to Blaine. "I'm sorry, it's just - " he began after the fifth interruption, waved off by a simple, "Don't worry about it; I totally understand," as Adam pulls out his own phone, briefly hitting off a text before setting it aside on the table.

Kurt relaxed, then, doing the same and letting himself get more involved in the conversation, responding to the intermittent texts and contributing more to the conversation between. He laughed at Adam's jokes and smiled at his ambitions, at last excusing himself at nine to check in with Vogue.

Daphne was in charge of the office with Isabelle out for a meeting with some of her higher ups in the higher offices. Kurt and she got along reasonably well, hitting it off best when they kept a respectable distance. Kurt answered phone calls for two hours without pausing to hang up, only switching the calls and offering the perfunctory greeting before responding to the barrage of callers that came his way.

Sipping at a bottle of water and texting Blaine on the side, he took advantage of a lull to step out of the office for a quick lunch at one of the cheaper local delis.

A conservative spender online, he retained his desire to stay within a neat budget with most of his expenses, including meals, and insisted on handling most of the cooking back at the apartment. Rachel tended to splurge on her nights, but she was an only child with two doting fathers; Kurt's own had the garage to manage and his congressional position, and a second son to worry about besides. (Although Carole's efficiency at raising Finn was such that Kurt knew that most of his dad's funds went to his education alone, allowing for a few luxuries even in New York.)

Eating quickly so that he didn't waste any unnecessary time, he hurried back to the office, spending the last few hours of his day off dealing with a couple implacable clients and a dozen other, more personable patrons. He liked his routine, even with the added stress of full time life at NYADA to consider. He was only a part time student due to his late admission then, but by fall, he would be enrolling full time, and so his work schedule would have to ease to accommodate it.

Except if he did land a higher position, then he would have to work the same if not more hours to maintain it, as well as keeping up with his classwork.

Dreading the logistics of it even as he eagerly anticipated the day when he could enroll in more than two courses at NYADA, he finally finished his last call of the day before stepping away. He shouldered his satchel and tidied up the office before departing, lifting a single hand in a slight wave as Daphne watched him, inclining her head in wordless acceptance.

He walked briskly back to his apartment, anticipating a warm, home-cooked meal - however it came to be; he needed to see what they had left at their loft - when the phone call came.

It was 4:52 PM.

It was such a normal day - until it wasn't.

* * *

"I - I don't understand. What are you saying?"

Sam rubs his forehead and forces himself to exhale before responding, his voice calm with an effort. He's been sitting in the emergency waiting room for an hour and dreading this phone call ever since he let go of Blaine's hand. Even knowing the necessity of it, he almost wishes he was at his side still rather than having this conversation. "There was a shooting at McKinley," he says. "Blaine was hurt."

Ring tone. Sam frowns, redialing on Blaine's phone and holding it up to his ear for several long moments before hitting end.

Dropping his head back to his hands, he exhales slowly.

"Are you going to be okay?" Marley asks quietly, sitting next to him, close enough that their thighs are pressed against each other. It's nice, having someone close and warm and solid when everything about the past few hours has been nothing but chaos. "Do you want me to get you a water?"

"Why does everyone ask that?" Sam rasps, more out of vacant curiosity than anything. "I'm not fucking thirsty."

She's silent for a moment, squeezing his arm lightly before getting up. He presses his thumbs against his own temples, wondering if he's finally scared her off. When she returns with a small blue Dixie cup two minutes later, he isn't surprised.

She hands it to him. He drinks.

"Thank you," he says, handing it back. She nods, sliding into the seat beside him once more, wrapping an arm wordlessly around his waist.

Brittany sits silently three feet away, painting her nails a light, polished blue. Kitty sits at her feet, alternately texting and complaining about the lack of outward entertainment. Artie wheels back and forth slowly in tiny circuits under the pretense of testing the wheels on his chair, examining them with greater scrutiny than strictly required. Joe hasn't said a word, sitting quietly apart, his hands folded and his head inclined in silent prayer.

Sam almost joins him, aching for the serenity, the peace exuding from him. Everyone else seems on the verge of a breakdown.

Marley included, he knows, in spite of her constant, calming presence.

"Where are the others?" he asks, knowing.

"Some went home," Marley explains. "Tina's on her way."

Sam nods once.

"Did you talk to Kurt?" she asks.

He swallows. "I - "

His phone - Blaine's phone, he corrects, head aching with the thought - vibrates, then, and he doesn't check twice to see the name before picking up. "Hello - "

"Details. Now."

Santana's sharp, clear voice is almost calming. "Brittany's fine," is all he says.

He can almost hear the tension easing from Santana's shoulders, her silent nod barely there. "What about the hobbit? Hummel's losing his shit over here."

"Blaine got shot."

Silence. Then: "Fuck."

Sam exhales slowly, knuckling his forehead with his free hand. "I know."

"Should I stop him?"

Sam says nothing, shaking his head. You can't, he thinks. Once Kurt sets his mind to something, he doesn't give up easily, and this . . . Sam doesn't want to stop him. He has no right.

Santana must know, too, because she's saying, "I'll leave Berry a note. We're going to the airport," before he's even processed a suitable response.

He nods. Swallows. "Thank you."

Ring tone.

Setting the phone on his knees, Sam hunches over them, willing himself not to vomit at the blood on his hands.

Curling his fingers around each other, bowing his head over them, he whispers, "Please," and it becomes a mantra.

Don't let him die. Don't let anyone die. Don't let this be real.

Marley rests a hand on his knee, squeezing once, saying nothing.

* * *

"Britt," Santana says gently, tugging on Brittany's hands with both of hers, curling her fingers around them and squeezing. There are tears on her cheeks, her lip captured between her teeth as she looks at Santana, dull dread lingering in her gaze. "Britt, honey. Come here."

Santana pulls her over to her vanity, sits her down, kneels in front of her and squeezes her hands, smiling up at her. "Honey. Look at me. Okay?"

Brittany obeys, silent tears tracking down her cheeks.

"Hey. I want you to listen to me." Santana looks up at her, squeezing her hands. "I'm not going to go away forever, okay? It's just for one year. It'll gone before you know it."

Brittany nods, not trusting her voice. Not knowing if she has one anymore.

"We're going to be okay," she promises, squeezing her hands. "Now, come on. I came here to hang out with my girlfriend, not worry about my future." On a whim, she straightens, taking a seat next to Brittany on the bed and grabbing a vial of light blue nail polish. "Here. Let me do your nails."

Brittany lets her, and the tears stop flowing after a time, quelled with gentle attention and sweet kisses stolen between comments she doesn't fully understand. Doesn't want to understand. She doesn't want to prepare for a time without Santana.

Sitting in her own bedroom with Santana beside her, looking down at her nails and smiling at the results, she can't help but feel secure. Safe. Protected.

Like everything really is going to be okay.

Looking down at her nails now, Brittany gently applies another stroke of blue, fingers trembling finely.

Santana promised to always be there when she needed her.

Always.

She isn't there.

One silent tear escapes its hold and slips down Brittany's cheek, unnoticed by the others.

* * *

Blaine remembers lights.

He also remembers screaming.

"Blaine."

He's acutely aware of the sharp pressure of a needle in his arm, the brisk staccato of medical conversations taking place above and around him, the stifling smell of antiseptic and fear.

"Blaine."

He's jostled and carried and shuffled along, transferred from one surface to the next with practiced ease, never once given pause in the flurry of movements.

"Blaine."

Somewhere in the process, someone claps an arm pressure cuff under his sleeve; someone else cuts away his shirt. He lets out a soft whine of protest at that, ignored as someone else hooks him up to an ECG monitor.

"Patient is unresponsive, we need to - "

He floats. He drifts. He wanders. Part of him is keenly aware of his conscious state, lives in the moment of blurred images and slurred speech, pulsing, tremendous pain and an indefinable cure. Another part has stepped quietly away from consciousness, muting and darkening the world.

* * *

"I need to know what's going on."

Kurt's voice is thin, but there's a quiet strength to it that Marley admires even as she closes her eyes, dreading the task ahead of her. She can't picture Jake or Ryder in Blaine's position, let alone a boyfriend of nearly three years. They're not together anymore, a quiet voice reminds her.

The urgency, the raw need in Kurt's voice tells a different story.

"He's going to be fine," she reassures reflexively.

Kurt makes a soft sound, almost like gagging. "But he's - " Swallow. "He's not okay now."

Quietly, reluctantly: "No."

She doesn't need to know the diagnosis, the formal names to know as much. Sam's face is enough.

Deep, shuddering breath. "How bad is it?" Kurt asks faintly.

"We don't know."

Silence. Then: "Where did he get - "

"Right shoulder," Marley answers, almost relieved in spite of the sick feeling in her gut at a question she finally can answer. "Someone shot him from behind."

Another shuddering breath. "Okay." Then, incessantly: "Okay. Okay. Okay."

"Breathe," Marley urges, gently, because she might not know Kurt well but she knows that he's on the verge of a panic attack. "He's going to be okay."

"We're booking the soonest flight that we can find," Kurt responds. Marley can hear the traffic vaguely behind him.

"Good."

"Call me if - if anything changes."

Marley closes her eyes and nods once. "I promise," she replies, letting Kurt hang up first. She closes the distance between the side hallway and the rest of the New Directions when she's done, reclaiming her seat beside Sam and resuming her wordless vigil, waiting, waiting, waiting.

Her eyes flicker to the television in the corner when she notices WILLIAM MCKINLEY HIGH SCHOOL flash across the bottom, following the news report as the subtitles stream endlessly across the bottom of the screen. They don't reveal much, details still in the workings and police still on the scene, but the overall tone is positive, with at least one suspect in custody (and she's somehow unsurprised when Coach Beiste's name appears in relation to his capture) and further results pending. Reports are still vague about injuries and possible fatalities, though, and Marley's stomach churns.

Looking away when she realizes that there isn't anything new, she rests her cheek against Sam's shoulder, letting his solidarity calm her. They've been close for a while, now, with similar struggles and friendly dispositions to connect them. It unsettles her to see him so utterly unraveled, torn apart at the seams and barely held together. She wants to hold him together, to comfort and be comforted in return, but he's too far gone to manage it, with the faintest hint of red still dyeing his palms.

She holds him as close as she dares, only relenting when Jake appears in her line of vision, his expression wide-eyed as he crouches in front of her. She lets go of Sam and allows Jake to pull her to her feet, pulling her into a tight hug, face buried against her shoulder. Rubbing small, soothing circles against the small of his back, she lets herself be calmed by his presence, holding on just as tightly.

"What happened?" he asks, pulling back reluctantly so he can look at her. "Are you - ?"

"I'm fine," she quips, sighing a little as she says, "It's Blaine."

Jake frowns, but his shoulders relax, his hands running down her arms once to fortify himself. "So you're not - ?"

"No."

He nods, once, calmness and solidarity taking over. "How is he?" he asks belatedly.

Marley bites her lip a little. "We don't know," she says softly. The others don't seem to be listening in on them, anyway, lost in their own thoughts, but she doesn't want to make things worse.

Jake nods once in understanding, Ryder appearing at the end of the hall and scurrying over to them. "Sorry, I had to park," he explains. "What's going on?"

Marley reiterates the main points, watching his expression darken with worry as he scans the room. "Should I go - ?" he asks, nodding at the receptionist's desk, and Marley shrugs. It couldn't hurt.

He returns a moment later with a simple, "He's still in surgery."

Marley sinks back into her chair, nodding once in resignation. "I'm not surprised," is all she says, tugging Jake down to the seat beside her.

Jake asks her questions and Marley responds, grateful to have someone to talk to with Sam unresponsive and the rest preoccupied. Kitty eyes them dourly from her corner, side-eyeing Ryder when he takes a seat across from them, next to Brittany.

And then there's quiet for a time as their conversations lapse and the only sounds are those around them, the unrelenting motions of existence beating out a soft tempo. The nurses behind the front desk chat amiably with one another, answering phone calls as they come and addressing patients or - more often - patients' relatives when they approach, nervous and wide-eyed.

It occurs to Marley, belatedly, that she should call Blaine's parents. She needs to talk to her own mom, too, because a quick, "Blaine's in the hospital, I'll talk to you soon," isn't enough.

Still, she can't bring herself to do any of it as she leans against Jake's shoulder and breathes.

As long as she doesn't break their circle of quiet, pseudo peace, then she'll be okay.

When Ryder offers her a small blue Dixie cup of water, she drinks it without protest.

"How did you know?" she asks, setting the empty cup down.

Ryder shrugs, fidgeting on his feet. "Intuition," is all he says, padding back over to his seat and sinking into it, pulling out his phone.

Marley mimics the motion, belatedly realizing that she still has Blaine's phone. She grips it a little more tightly at the message from Kurt, opening it and reading it.

We got a flight for tonight. Late cancellation.

There's an x after Kurt's name, and Marley takes a moment to respond, trying not to think that it shouldn't be her sitting her, texting Blaine's ex.

It should be Blaine, texting his boyfriend.

Be careful. Good luck.

A moment passes, and then: Thank you. We will.

Marley sets the phone aside, leans her head against Jake's shoulder, and breathes.

It's going to be okay.

We're going to be okay.

Everything's fine now.


	4. Chapter 4

Kurt remembers the slushy incident all too well. He remembers crouching on the pavement next to Blaine, hands reaching instinctively outward, needing to comfort, to heal. He can't, and he knows it, and he hates it. So he holds on, instead, trying to anchor, trying to do anything but make it worse, but Blaine keeps screaming and he doesn't know what to do.

He doesn't know what to do, and it's the most frustrating, terrifying feeling in the world.

Kurt didn't think it could get worse. He'd never felt more helpless than when he watched the nurses trying to calm Blaine down enough so they could irrigate his eyes. He'd held his hand and squeezed it as tight as he dared, Blaine squeezing back just as hard as he panted and whined and tried to claw at his own eyes. Eventually, they'd managed to set up an IV, sedate him, and irrigate his eyes. He hadn't been completely out of it, drifting in a half-aware state where he remained only dimly conscious of the events around him, malleable and placid.

He'd hoped that it might bring him relief, then, knowing that Blaine wasn't in any more pain. It hadn't, because he could still hear his screams, his low whines of pain, and those didn't vanish as easily. Besides, as soon as they had him calm enough that he didn't clutch his own face and cower the moment anyone came near, the true damage was revealed, exacerbated by time and Blaine's own desperate efforts to get the rock salt out. The doctor needed only a brief eye examination to determine that the damage required surgery to repair. The fact that Blaine's cornea had been scratched horrified Kurt, and he'd felt dizzied when he realized the magnitude of what Kurt had done for him.

It had been terrifying then, not knowing why his boyfriend was clawing at his own face and screaming after getting slushied.

It's worse now. Infinitely worse.

Because his only source of information is a silent CNN news broadcast covering the Breaking News that a school shooting took place at Lima, Ohio's William McKinley high school this afternoon. Though they have reporters on the ground, details are pending, police investigating for additional accomplices and other hidden threats. Kurt watches the report with avid, hungry eyes, following the unending stream of subtitles across the bottom of the screen. He half-wishes that he could hear the reporter's voice, craving the calm, clinical sound as someone reports a tragedy that is not their own.

Because all he can think about is Blaine, and the fact that he isn't there.

It's already well after six, and while Santana is texting half a dozen people in her own corner of the sitting area, Kurt can't take his eyes off the screen, willing the reporters to go to the hospital and find out what's happening with Blaine. They don't mention his name at all, only 'confirmed casualties' and 'at least one in critical condition.' Bile rises in his throat at the phrase: critical condition.

He made Marley promise to text him if anything changed.

It's been over an hour. Nothing's changed.

He tries not to look into it, tries to reassure himself that even if Blaine was shot (because he can't accept the reality, he can't, or he'll hijack the first car he finds and drive to the hospital without stopping), then he's probably being treated as they speak. They can't know what's happening because so much is happening, too much for the silent ticker to keep up with, too fast for the scroll to comprehend.

But he wants to know. He aches for it. There's a pit in the bottom of his stomach that feels like it will explode if he doesn't find out soon. He doesn't want to think about what it will do if the news is bad.

How can it be worse? he wonders.

Forcing himself to take a deep breath, he looks down at his phone as it vibrates.

Finn: Dude, what the hell?

Sighing, he types out a quick, Call me, because he doesn't know if he can manage it without backing out. Because right now all he wants to do is scream.

Scream just to hear something.

Anything.

"What's going on? I leave town for two days and everyone's talking about - "

"There was a shooting. At McKinley." His words come out more acidic than he intends, but if there were any softer, any closer, he's afraid he might actually burst into tears. "Blaine was shot, I don't know any other details - "

"Holy shit, Kurt."

Kurt closes his eyes. Forces himself to breathe. "Please tell me you're close. Please."

"Yeah, dude, I'm like - half an hour from our house, I just heard it on the radio. Why didn't anyone tell me?"

"We were preoccupied," Kurt says. It sounds weak to his own ears, but Finn accepts it without questioning, speeding up a little by the sounds of it.

"Okay. Okay. Listen, I'm gonna hang up now and I'll call you back once I get home, okay?"

"Okay."

"Have you told Burt and my mom?"

Something twists in Kurt's gut at the thought. At making this situation any more real. As long as he limits it to distant threats and empty faces, then he might be able to convince himself that it's not actually happening, that it's not real -

Except it is, and he knows it.

"No," he says softly.

"I'll call them first," Finn responds. The lack of judgment, of unspoken rebuke in his voice, is comforting. "I love you, Kurt. I'll talk to you soon."

Kurt sniffs, wondering when the tears came from, pinching the bridge of his noise and letting out a shuddering breath. "I love you, too. Be safe." He hangs up before he can think about it, heaving into his hands, silently sobbing. It hurts and he tries to stop, tries to calm himself because he's already on the verge of hyperventilation and that hurts, but he can't, he can't, he can't, and Blaine might die and this is real and -

"Shh," Santana says, and he tries to hold onto his phone even though he knows it's futile, it's amazing he hasn't dropped it already, and then she's wrapping her arms tightly around him, twisting in the chair next to him so she can do so. "Deep breaths. Deep breaths."

Kurt almost chokes on the first one, gagging on the next, managing it on the third, aching try. He concentrates on nothing else, then, blotting from his mind the stupid, uncaring television set in the corner quietly tearing his world apart, the empty terminal, the empty chairs surrounding them. He shuts it out and wills himself to breathe, covering his eyes with a hand as he comes down from it.

"I'm - I'm sorry, it's just - "

"Stop," Santana says.

He does.

They stay silent, then, Santana quietly retracting her arms after a moment and handing him his phone. He takes it without a word, wondering if now she'll offer some dry comment about his tears, some quip about how easily he lets the world cave around him.

She doesn't. She stands and pads over to her former seat, already texting as she sits down, folding one leg artfully over the other.

Breathing out slowly, Kurt looks down at his phone, looks down at his contacts and scrolls through them.

He finds Blaine, writes, I need you, and hits send.

No one responds.

Their eight o'clock flight arrives at last and they board, Santana squeezing into the narrow seat beside him, still texting away. Kurt catches a glimpse of Quinn at the top before she turns it off at the flight attendant's instruction, buckling in. Kurt sluggishly does the same, leaning his head back against the seat rest and fighting down a sudden rise of nausea. He gratefully accepts the piece of gum Santana offers him as one of the attendants runs through the safety procedures, popping it into his mouth and chewing through the take off, chewing it long after it's lost its last vestiges of flavor. He stares at his blank phone while Santana pulls out her iPod, humming along to a set list of Amy Winehouse as she passes the time.

The flight doesn't take long, and they land in Columbus without issue. They don't have any luggage to pick up, only their two carryon bags with basic necessities, and so they quickly flag down a taxi and are on their way to Lima within the hour.

It seems to take forever and a day, and Kurt jerks every time his phone vibrates, staring uncomprehendingly down at the screen as each new text from Finn or Carole or even his dad appears. His fingers shake too much each time he responds, but the lump in his throat is too thick to work past, and so he stays silent, saying nothing as he listens to the radio broadcast and the taxi driver's idle chatter about the weather.

When his phone buzzes for the tenth time in a row, Santana reaches over and pries it out of his grasp, sending three quick texts off before handing it back to him. He pockets it, closing his eyes and willing time to go just that much faster, to close the distance between him and Blaine that much sooner.

At eleven, they reach Kurt's place. Santana pays the driver; Kurt barely remembers to unbuckle himself before climbing out of the car. As soon as their doors shut, the front door to the Hummel-Hudson home opens, Burt rushing out and planting both hands on Kurt's shoulders, looking at him before pulling him in a tight hug.

He clings, and clings, and wills himself not to cry again. Not here. Not now.

He's home.

He doesn't feel any better, though. He doesn't feel any better as the five of them cram into Burt's truck, Carole, Kurt, and Santana squeezed together in the back seat. He doesn't feel any better when they reach St. Anne's Hospital at quarter after eleven, hurriedly parking in the first spot they find and making the long trek to emergency. A short walk down the hallway brings them to the main waiting room, where most of the Glee clubbers have already congregated.

It hits Kurt like a punch in the gut that this is real, that it's actually happening, then.

And he doesn't cry. He doesn't sob. He smiles reassuringly, eyes red with unshed tears, and says quietly, "Thank you for being here."

Marley is the first to stand, approaching him and giving him a tight hug. Santana is already on the move, spotting Brittany and pulling her into a hug, paying no mind to the others.

"I'm glad you're here," Marley says at last as she pulls back, letting Kurt look at the others, all eyeing him with a mixture of doubt and - relief? Fear? He can't say. "It's been - " She trails off, saying nothing.

Kurt nods, reaching up to rub his forehead. "Are his parents coming?" Carole asks, the edges of her mouth down-turned.

Kurt shakes his head, wearily, already knowing. "No. Maybe later. They never have their phones on once they're off the clock."

Carole says nothing, but he can hear the disapproval in her voice, loud and clear.

"How long - " He licks his lips, swallows. "How long should it take?" he asks her.

"I'd say he's in recovery now," Carole says, squeezing his arm once lightly, reassuringly. "The surgery would only take a couple hours at most, unless there were complications."

Kurt nods, feeling dizzy at the thought. Four. He was checked in at four.

He glances at his watch. 11:30 PM.

Striding over to the counter, he asks quietly, "Excuse me? Um, hi. My - my friend, Blaine Anderson, he was admitted earlier, is he - ?"

"Are you family?"

"No, no, I'm - uh, I'm Kurt, Kurt Hummel."

The nurse pauses, turns in her chair and checks a chart before dialing a number and talking briskly to someone on the other end, repeating his name. "Are you over eighteen?" she asks, turning back to look at him.

"Since last May," Kurt confirms.

The nurse nods, listening and uh-huhing before adding a quick thank you and hanging up. "Sign here," she says, holding out a clipboard. He fumbles with the pen, scribbling his signature and passing it back, hands shaking. He tucks his left hand in his pocket, willing himself to remain composed as the nurse writes KURT H. on a visitor's badge and hands it to him. "Go through those doors," she directs, pointing to a set of doors around the desk, "and follow the yellow arrow. He's in room 211. Knock first. We only allow visitors until 11:00 PM, but given the circumstances, we're giving you half an hour. Visiting hours start at nine."

Kurt nods, heart pounding so hard he wonders how he manages to get out, "Room 211, half an hour. Yellow arrow. Knock first."

Carole and Burt are standing beside him, he realizes belatedly, the others watching attentively. Waiting.

"We only have clearance for Mr. Hummel," the nurse tells Carole and Burt, almost gently, as she presses a button on the wall, opening the automated doors.

It takes every ounce of willpower Kurt has not to run through them the second they open.

"You gonna be okay?" Burt asks gruffly, placing a hand on Kurt's shoulder and squeezing once. "It could be - "

"I have to," Kurt says, turning to look him in the eye briefly, squeezing his hand. "Where's his phone?" he asks, looking around. Sam hands it over without a word, meeting his eyes, a dozen unwritten emotion warring in his gaze.

"Good luck," is all he says.

Kurt swallows and nods, accepting a quick hug from Burt before hurrying through the doors, careful to keep his pace as normal as possible.

It's easy, it turns out, as the hallways prove more challenging than formerly thought. There are no less than five colors on the wall, designating different sections of the emergency ward. He follows the yellow streak, backtracking once when he hits a dead end and clicking a button that opens another automated door, stepping through.

The hallway is silent, his footsteps loud against the tiled floor. He rounds a corner and quickens his pace when he sees 201 on the right wall. All but jogging the last few steps, he halts in front of 211, swallowing hard before knocking once.

It takes a moment, but there's an audible click, and when Kurt tries the handle, it opens.

Slowly, not daring move quickly so he doesn't pass out, he eases the door open.

"Oh, Blaine," he breathes, inching closer to the bed. Blaine's eyes are half-lidded, his breathing a little raspy in his chest as he looks at Kurt. A low whine of pain escapes him as he tries to sit up; Kurt closes the distance between them, then, sitting on the edge of the seat beside him and reaching for his hand, running his thumb over the backs of his knuckles. "Shh. Don't move. Don't move, honey. It's okay. I'm here."

Blaine squeezes his fingers weakly, intertwining them, and Kurt feels his throat tighten as he lifts their hands, pressing a kiss to Blaine's.

"It's okay," he repeats softly, stroking his thumb over Blaine's hand. "Do you need anything?"

Blaine tugs his hand lightly, eyelids sliding shut.

"Hm?" Kurt asks, squeezing his hand gently.

"You," Blaine murmurs thickly. "You're here."

Kurt lets out a slow breath, nodding once. "Of course I'm here," he says. "I wouldn't be anywhere else right now, B."

Blaine swallows, throat clicking audibly. "Hurts."

Kurt's heart aches. "I know, sweetheart," is all he says, squeezing Blaine's hand rhythmically, trying to distract him a little. "I know."

He lets himself absorb it all, then, the machines hooked up to Blaine, the regular beating of a heart rate monitor and the steady drip of an IV. He's sporting a hideous blue hospital gown, a thin sheet draped over him. Tucking the sheet absentmindedly against his hip, Kurt looks up when Blaine squeezes his hand again.

"Don't go," he slurs.

Kurt squeezes his hand once, hard. "I'm not going anywhere, B," he promises. "Go to sleep. I'll be here when you wake up."

Blaine curls his fingers around Kurt's a little tighter, breathing already evening out. He's asleep in seconds, head tipping further to one side. Kurt holds his hand for a time, stroking his thumb over the back of his knuckles again before leaning up to kiss his forehead. "I love you," he breathes, squeezing his hand, unable to believe that . . .

He's okay.

He's alive.

. . . He's alive.

Closing his eyes, he rests his chin on the bed beside Blaine, holding his hand until a nurse finally comes half an hour later to usher him out.


	5. Chapter 5

Kurt doesn't sleep well that night.

He tries to, at first, thinking that maybe now that he's seen Blaine, he'll be able to collapse face first on his bed and forget that the nightmare ever happened. Forget that Blaine's life was ever in danger and pretend that he's still in New York and maybe even Blaine's there beside him, curling his arms and legs around him in that cuddly, ridiculously adorable way of his (not that Kurt would admit it, of course, because it isn't supposed to be cute, it's supposed to be annoying, and he totally steals all the covers, too).

He can't, though, because the second he steps out of the emergency ward he's swarmed, a dozen anxious faces crowding around him, eager to know something, anything.

"I don't know anything," he finally snaps, a little more harshly than he intends. He forces himself to soften his tone when he realizes that these are his friends, that they're just as terrified and uncertain and curious as he was - and is, he reminds himself, knowing that seeing Blaine alive and seeing him well are two very different things - even if theirs is to a different degree. They can't comprehend his fear, his relief, his euphoria to the same level, because they've never loved Blaine. Not like he has.

"He's ... he was pretty out of it," he explains, leading them back over to the chairs. No one sits, keeping their tight knit huddle close around him; he isn't surprised. "He didn't tell me anything. But he's stable."

"Did he - seem in a lot of discomfort?" Sam asks, wringing his hands together a little. Kurt notices the dried blood on them and feels his stomach lurch, the sudden temptation to vomit at the realization that it's Blaine's almost overwhelming him.

"He was pretty out of it," he echoes in lieu of responding, not wanting to arouse deeper fears, greater concerns. They can't see Blaine now, can't know that he's going to be okay even if he's not okay now, and Kurt forces himself to understand that. To emphasize with that, knowing that he stood in their shoes not an hour before. "They're keeping him pretty heavily medicated to cope with the trauma."

"Is he going to be okay?" Brittany asks, refreshingly blunt and unsubtle. Kurt meets her gaze, holding it and trying to convey without words that he can't be anything but. They need him. He needs them. And as long as he can physically cope with the struggles set before him, then he will, regardless of the difficulty of the task.

Knowing that gives him the courage to say, "Yes. He is," and meet each of their gazes in turn. They don't relax, but they quiet, allowing him to depart with his family with only promises to keep in touch, keep them in the loop. He left Blaine's phone with him on the off chance that he would feel up to texting.

Privately, he knows that it's a precaution. He hopes that Blaine will sleep through the night, but he can't say with any certainty if he will, and he doesn't want him to be completely alone if he doesn't. The thought of Blaine waking up alone in the first place guts him: alone and terrified and in pain, with no one but a few nurses for company, casual intruders in his small, fragile world. Kurt aches to take him home already; he knows how many bad memories Blaine has of hospitals and being alone in them for any period of time, and so he says a silent prayer that Blaine will sleep through the night, pleading with some power he doesn't know exists.

The ride home is quiet, with Carole and Burt filling the silence while Finn stares blankly out the window. Kurt chafes his thumb over the screen on his phone, trying to think of something intelligent to say, someone that still needs to be informed, but the news stations have already begun the tedious process of covering the incident for a broader, more detached audience. Scrolling through his old messages, he finds the last ones he sent to Rachel, quietly typing out a question and waiting for her response.

Rachel: I saw your note. I'm at Brody's for tonight.

Kurt briefly casts a look in Finn's direction, wondering how he would respond. He's lost in his own thoughts, though, watching the landscape pass, and Kurt's left to his own devices as he replies simply, I'm sorry.

There's silence from her end, and by the time they pull into the Hummel-Hudson driveway, Kurt begins to think that maybe she won't respond at all. At last, a solitary, I know, appears, followed shortly by, Finn told me. I'm praying for him.

He's going to be okay, Kurt assures. He might not like Rachel all the time (or even most of the time, admittedly), but he knows that she means well at others and genuinely cares about him. And his friends. And boyfriend. Thank you for your thoughts. He leaves it at that, tucking his phone into his pocket and shouldering his satchel, climbing bow-legged out of the back of the truck.

Home doesn't have the same feel to it that it did six months ago, he muses, almost sadly, as Burt flicks on the hall light and steps inside, toeing off his shoes. Nothing's changed, but the very air seems to have altered in some small, fundamental way in his absence. He tries to pinpoint the difference and, after minutes of fruitless effort, gives it up as a lost cause, shrugging out of his jacket and hanging it up. Finn doesn't seem to mind or notice the changes, padding off with his phone in hand upstairs.

Kurt wants to follow him, step into his own room for the first time in weeks and sleep, but his stomach growls and he knows that he's better off eating something than having a massive headache from hunger later on. Padding off into the kitchen, he hums as he nibbles on some crackers and cheese, making himself a sandwich and almost dozing off in the process of eating it. Carole and Burt linger for a moment, seemingly tempted to sit in and talk with him, before exchanging goodnights and hugs and departing upstairs.

Kurt's left alone, then, and he closes his eyes as he sits at the empty table, trying to take it all in. It seems surreal that it actually happened, let alone all in the same day (although a quick glance at a watch reveals that he has mere minutes until midnight).

He thought that the slushying would be the last time he'd have to deal with his boyfriend's health in serious jeopardy. How wrong he was.

Dragging himself away from the table at quarter after midnight, he makes the slow trek upstairs, slipping into his own room and shutting the door quietly behind himself. Sliding underneath the covers of his bed without bothering to change in to pajamas, he curls his arms around one of his pillows, breathing it in.

Except it doesn't feel right, because it's lost any traces of Blaine's scent (not that he would ever admit that, either) and it's cold, besides. His entire bed is cold, and he curls up a little tighter as he wills himself not to think about it, to just go to sleep.

Still, it's too quiet for him, the lack of noise stark, an indistinct white noise filling his mind instead. He rolls and twists and writhes in frustration, at last stuffing his pillow over his head and waiting, waiting, waiting.

He must drift off at some point, because he jerks awake when his phone vibrates, nearly pitching his pillow across the room before he thinks about it. Fumbling for his phone, he feels his stomach twist at the name, his heart sinking at the message.

Blaine: kurt.

Breathing in slowly, willing himself to stay calm, he writes, Hi, B. Sleepy?

It takes a moment, longer than it should, but then: mss you.

Oh, honey. He bites his lip, trying to think of something more reassuring to write, at last settling on, Close your eyes, sweetie. I'll be there as soon as you open them again, okay?

ok.

Trusting. Open. Painfully hopeful, even, Kurt knows, even though he can't see him, huddled on the bed with only his phone for company. There's silence, then, and he dares to hope, dares to believe that Blaine is asleep, that he isn't sitting anxious and awake in eager anticipation of his arrival.

He dozes for the next few hours or so, drifting between wakefulness and sleep as he waits for the inevitable, Where are you?

It doesn't come, though, and he's all but crawling into the shower by seven, shrugging into his coat and hopping into his Navigator with only a note on the counter regarding his destination by eight thirty. He arrives at St. Anne's in record time, quickly running by the receptionist's desk and once more confirming his identity. They give him another visitor's badge and admit him, and he walks briskly toward his destination, knocking on the door and gingerly testing the handle when nothing happens. It still opens for him, and he eases inside the room, careful not to make too much noise as he listens to Blaine's soft snoring. He stirs when Kurt intertwines their hands again, needing the reassuring contact, for himself if nothing else.

With only a soft snuffle, he settles back into a deep rhythm of sleep, Kurt resting his cheek against the bed and waiting.

It's calming, being near him if nothing else, knowing that he's being taken care of and looked after. He doesn't need to know what sort of damage the bullet has inflicted on Blaine's shoulder to know that it's bad - the bandages alone visible at the edge of his gown are clear enough indicators of that - but it helps to know that he's at least on some of the strongest pain medications that medicine can procure. He might not be comfortable or pain free, but he's alive, and that's what matters.

Almost dozing off, his own eyelids drooping, he startles when the fingers in his own twitch a little, lifting his head. "Blaine?" he asks.

Blaine lets out a soft noise, part whine, part groan. "Hey," he soothes, running his hand up and down his arm. "It's okay. I'm here."

When Blaine doesn't stop, he asks, "Do you want me to get a nurse?" even as Blaine shakes his head a little. "Are you sure?"

Blaine nods, and Kurt bites his lip, leaning forward so he can cup his cheek, stroking his thumb over his cheekbone soothingly. "Better?" he asks, when Blaine releases a slow breath, nodding again. "Good." He slides his hand back down and intertwines them, squeezing Blaine's once as he says, "How'd you sleep?"

Blaine's fingers twitch in his own, curling around them. He gives them a tiny squeeze, thumb brushing over the backs of Kurt's knuckles. He repeats the motion with unrelenting patience, Kurt's throat tightening when he realizes that Blaine's trying to comfort him.

Squeezing his hand once, gently, he says, "I'm really glad you're okay, B."

Blaine nods a little, breathing already on the cusp of sleep once more. Unexpectedly, he asks, "How is everyone?"

It comes out huskier than normal, sleep-heavy and thick-tongued, but Kurt's able to decipher it, replying, "Everyone's fine. No one else was hurt."

Blaine's grip slackens with relief.

"Just focus on you right now, okay?" Kurt urges. "Don't worry about them. Santana will keep them in line, if nothing else."

Blaine blinks, eyes opening to slits. "She's here?"

"Mmhm," Kurt confirms, heart aching at the sight. "She flew in with me last night. Rachel is staying with Brody."

Blaine nods a little, eyelids sliding shut. "What - " He licks his lips, finishing, "How're they?"

Kurt squeezes his hand. "Concerned," he replies, knowing that Blaine isn't talking solely about physical states. He also knows that it wouldn't be productive to tell Blaine details about how concerned some of them were. "They're adjusting. It's a big change." He squeezes Blaine's hand once, reassuringly. "We're just worried about you."

"Sam?"

Kurt stays quiet, unsure how to phrase Sam's listless reaction without making him worry.

Blaine sighs and reaches out sluggishly for a little clicker beside his bed, pressing the call button without another word. Kurt doesn't push him, glancing over at the door when a nurse appears. "Good morning," she greets, already checking equipment, switching out his IV bag with practiced ease. "How are we feeling today?"

Blaine says nothing, wincing a little when he shifts his hand, IV tugging at the back of it. "Sam ... Sam Evans, he's my - "

"Your friend?" the nurse offers, checking something on his chart. Blaine nods once, squeezing Kurt's hand a little in involuntary relief. Kurt squeezes back. "I'll put him on the list," she assures.

"Thank you," Kurt says quietly, offering her a smile.

She finishes checking Blaine's vitals, nodding once. "Let me know if you need anything, okay? The doctor should be in in a couple hours to check on you." She departs, then, leaving them alone.

Blaine licks his lips, his breathing a little heavier as he says, "That should - that should help - "

"Shh," Kurt murmurs, rubbing his arm soothingly. "Don't worry about it, okay? I'll take care of it."

Blaine nods a little, relaxing. "Thank you."

Thank you for being alive, Kurt wants to say. He doesn't, squeezing Blaine's hand again gently and staying with him long after he's dozed off.

* * *

"How is he?" Sam asks, standing the moment Kurt enters the emergency waiting room. He's been loathe to leave Blaine, but his phone's been vibrating almost nonstop since eleven and he doesn't want to wake Blaine. With a quick kiss to his forehead and a murmured promise to return, he left, only to find Sam and Finn.

"He's stable," Kurt assures wearily, sinking into the nearest chair. Sam sits across from him, Finn beside so he can rest a comforting hand on his shoulder. It helps, even if he knows that Finn's calmness stems from the fact that it isn't his significant other in the hospital. "He's still in ... a lot of pain, but they're keeping him pretty heavily drugged."

Sam nods once, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. His hands are mercifully clean, not a trace of blood remaining. Kurt wonders how long he had to scrub his hands to get it all off.

"Burt and my mom were really worried when you took off this morning," Finn chimes in. "They thought maybe ... something had happened."

Something was wrong.

Kurt resists the urge to tell him that everything's wrong, that Blaine's in the hospital, and says instead, "Nothing happened. Everything's the same."

That, at least, is partially true. Nothing will ever be the same again, he knows, but already, they're building a new normal, a new reality in which they can live.

Blaine was shot.

He was shot and he almost died, but he didn't, and that's what matters.

He didn't die.

"When can we see him?" Sam prompts, looking calmer, more stable somehow. The contrast between today and yesterday is stark. It's a relief.

"He's still exhausted, but ... he put your name on the list."

Sam nods once, an indefinable emotion - relief? Surprise? Gratitude? - crossing his face before he clasps his hands together. "I don't want to push him," he says. "I'll wait."

"Same here," Finn agrees, although there's a certain edge to his tone that Kurt knows, a quiet disappointment. It surprises him - he knows that Finn and Blaine haven't been exactly close lately, even more distant after his break up - but it's also comforting, to know that he cares.

That he's not alone in feeling like slowly, the world might come together again.


	6. Chapter 6

Six inches.

On the surface, it doesn't seem like much. Sam can measure it using his forearm - can encompass its entirety, in fact, in that simple span of space - and rarely has use for any quantity of such a specific, unsubstantial amount.

In the context of a school shooting, it means everything.

Six inches means the difference between a long recovery and no recovery at all.

Six inches means the difference between a nonfatal shot to the shoulder and permanent, incurable brain damage.

Six inches means the difference between front-lining the national news and headlining a local obituary.

Simply put, six inches means the difference between life and death for Blaine Anderson.

It's extraordinary how quickly such a small thing becomes important.

How much all the details matter.

And yet, there are other details, too. Instances that Sam regrets more than anything.

If he'd been able to see anything beyond their little huddle with Brittany in the hallway that afternoon, to look down the hallway at the right moment and see the shooter pull out a gun, then he might have intervened. He might have borne Blaine to the ground, or pushed him, or shouted at him to get down. He might have thrown himself in between them.

He might have done something.

Instead, he watched in helpless terror as Blaine collapsed, a red plume of blood already dyeing the back of his shirt.

Six inches spared Blaine's life.

But six more might have spared them this.

You couldn't have known, he reminds himself, listening to Blaine's deep, even breathing as he texts Marley, assuring her that everything's fine, he's got it, he's fine, she can spread the word to the others, everything's fine.

You couldn't have intervened because it happened too fast. You couldn't have known.

It rings hollow to him, a shallow comfort.

He thinks back to the Jackson off where everything had seemed playful and competitive and okay until suddenly Blaine was on the concrete, screaming and clutching at his face. Blaine's intervention had been an act of desperation, then, lunging in front of Kurt and pushing him out of the way. There was no moment to pause and consider the potential consequences. There wasn't time for hesitation or concern or fear. There were only those handful of seconds before Sebastian tipped the cup just so and thrust it at Kurt.

Blaine hadn't known that what was in it. He couldn't have known that it would be anything more than an ordinary slushy in those final half-seconds before impact.

All he'd known that Kurt was in danger, and he'd reacted.

Sam only wishes that he'd done the same in the hallway. That he'd seen the moment, the solitary cue before chaos erupted. Maybe he wouldn't have thrown himself in front of Blaine, but he might have pushed him, or grabbed him, or something.

Anything to prevent this from happening.

Anything to prevent it from happening to Blaine again.

"Hey," he says aloud, softly, as Blaine twitches in his sleep, rousing with a groan. His eyelids slide open to half-mast, dazed and weary as he looks over and takes in Sam's appearance. Something about the soft confusion there guts Sam - this shouldn't have happened to you, you shouldn't be here, you don't deserve this - but he can't help but admire the quiet strength, too, an attentiveness and willingness to listen that calms him. Steadies him even in the midst of all the turmoil surrounding them.

They've had to deal with the media covering the shooting as though it's nothing more than a particularly noteworthy fall in the stock market or rise in gas prices. It'll fade soon enough, even with the dozens of cameramen and other media outlets stationed around McKinley, eager to get an inside scoop. Once the story has had time to steep and the viewers time to mourn in their distant, isolated fashion, they'll move on, and they'll forget.

But McKinley never will. And they won't, either.

Looking at Blaine, he can't help but want to tell him that it wasn't in vain. That if it wasn't him, then it might have been someone . Marley. Jake. Tina.

Himself.

He almost wishes it was himself in Blaine's place.

Except Blaine doesn't want that, doesn't want someone else to step in for him. The set of his jaw, the determined gleam in his eyes speaks volumes to him; if this had to happen, then so be it.

He's their leader.

If one of them had to take the fall, then -

So be it.

"You're really brave, do you know that?" Sam asserts quietly, needing to say it.

Blaine says nothing, reaching out a hand slowly after a moment and resting it on the bed between them. Sam's throat tightens at the sight, thinking that maybe Blaine isn't quite awake enough to tell the difference between Kurt and himself (because holding hands isn't them, it's theirs). Blaine's fingers curl weakly into a fist, though, and Sam swallows as he reaches forward and gently bumps it back. "Yeah, man. You're still ours, okay? We're not gonna replace you just because this happened. We're not. You're our leader. And we're gonna stay until you're better."

Blaine's eyelids slide shut briefly, a long, slow breath escaping him. Sam doesn't know him well enough to interpret it - he almost wishes Kurt was still there instead of getting lunch with Santana and Brittany - but he can sense the relief, somewhere. The awe.

"We've got your back," Sam insists, and it should be cheesy, it should.

It isn't.

Blaine's eyes open to slits again, his gaze flicking over to him.

Impulsively, Sam closes his hand over Blaine's fist, giving it a single hard squeeze. "I didn't - I didn't have your back before. I didn't protect you. And I'm sorry." He squeezes his hand again, a little harder. Blaine doesn't react, staring at him, waiting. "You're really brave," he continues, needing to say something, anything. "You're really fucking brave, man. I couldn't push you out of the way. I couldn't do anything. And yet you just . . . you stepped in front of Kurt like . . . like it didn't even matter. What happened to you."

"It didn't," Blaine says softly. His voice is thick, heavy with pain, but it's still clear enough for Sam to decipher. He nods once, squeezing his hand again.

"He's lucky to have you," he finishes.

Blaine closes his eyes, sudden and wounded.

"He is," Sam insists, needing him to see it, to know it.

A muscle in Blaine's jaw tenses. Sam sighs and squeezes his hand again, gently, more to get his attention than anything. "Look, cheating on him was wrong, but . . . he loves you. He still loves you. He's not gonna . . . banish you or something as soon as you're out of here."

Blaine opens his eyes again, red and slightly glossy.

"Hey, come on," Sam says, softening his tone, not wanting to make Blaine cry. God knows how Kurt will react if he comes back and finds his boyfriend in tears. "Didn't you see him earlier? He loves you. He flew all the way back here in a heartbeat just to make sure you were okay. He doesn't want you out of his life."

Blaine tilts his head to look at the ceiling, his throat working as he swallows, clearly trying to reign his emotions under control. Sam takes pity on him, pulling away so he can busy himself by checking his phone again. It gives Blaine a moment to compose himself. After all of the trauma they've undergone in the past twenty four hours, he isn't surprised by the reaction. He'd be more than a little overwhelmed by it all if he was in Blaine's position, too.

Almost on cue, a light knock comes on the door. Blaine's entire frame tenses briefly before he relaxes when Kurt's head appears. "Hi," Kurt says, smiling as he steps inside and shuts the door behind himself. He has a laptop bag tucked under one arm, his satchel squeezed on top of it. "Everything okay?"

"Everything's fine," Sam assures, getting up and relinquishing the chair. Kurt opens his mouth to protest, but Sam simply shakes his head, walking past him and giving his shoulder a single brief squeeze. "I'm gonna go check on Marley and the rest of the gang. They've been texting me nonstop." Looking back at Blaine, he adds, "Take it easy, all right? No more crazy stunts."

Blaine lifts a hand in a mock salute. Sam nods as he steps out of the room, Kurt's talk dying off behind him.

Extraordinary how much of a difference six inches can make. Had Blaine side-stepped or the shooter missed. . . .

Sam doesn't think about it, actively rejects the thought as he makes the short trek back to the waiting room.

Blaine didn't die.

And that's what matters.


	7. Chapter 7

It feels intrusive, being around them.

Somehow, the Wonder Twins have always managed to make every moment together theirs. It doesn't matter if there are a thousand other people in the room with them or none at all: they capture each second spent in each other's presence and relish. At times, it's overwhelming, and Santana retreats to another room to discuss less blatantly sappy moments of the day, keenly aware of their presence barely a dozen feet away. She doesn't see them often engaged in such acts of casual intimacy, but on the few occasions when she does see them, it leaves an impression.

She doesn't get that vibe with the British Wonder. Watching Hummel prowl the loft anxiously whenever he expects him, she wonders if he knows it, too. It wouldn't surprise her. He always has such a desperately hopeful smile on his face every time he sees him. It's almost as if he smiles hard enough, then it might make it more real.

It doesn't. And when the British Wonder finally leaves with a glancing touch and a warm smile, Santana notices that Kurt doesn't stare longingly after him. He doesn't put a hand on the doorway or his shoulder to try and hold him back. He doesn't even call after him when he's halfway out the door to ask if he wants to meet up again next weekend. He closes the door quietly after him, leans against the frame, and exhales.

As if he's been holding his breath the entire time, on the verge of letting loose an irreparable soliloquy about his undying love for the hobbit. She can see it in his face - the strain, the exhaustion - but she doesn't comment on it, whether she's dicing vegetables for dinner or reading a book on the couch. She's an intruder. It's not her battle to fight.

Still, curiosity wins over. While Kurt may be a private person, Santana knows things. Some she bribes out of people; others she conquers. Mostly she observes, and waits, and steps in when opportunity arises. Though rarely appreciated, her brutal honesty serves two purposes: airing out her own frustration and breaking the tension. While those involved might look upon her with disgust and resentment at the time, they'll quiet thank her later, backing off on an argument or simply letting her have her way. It's nice, and she likes being the arbiter, especially one with a bad rep. She has nothing to lose, nothing to hide.

As a result, she digs up all the dirty little secrets that she can find about Berry and Hummel, innately curious about what sort of monsters lurk in their closets.

While she's still trying to find enough brain bleach to erase the memory of a package of pink condoms in Rachel's drawer, she's seen far more revealing things in Kurt's.

Some are more obvious than others. The weird arm-pillow that he sleeps with is a prime example. After the first fight between the three of them over sleeping arrangements, Santana ended up cozying up to Hummel in his passably queen-sized bed, immediately zeroing in on the blanket thing jutting out of the covers. It only takes a quick look to confirm that it isn't, in fact, a mannequin or an actual body.

She looks up at him expectantly when he enters the 'room' five minutes later, freezing mid-step with a towel draped over his damp shoulders. When she doesn't ask about it, doesn't even bat an incredulous eyelash, he relaxes visibly, padding over to his vanity and setting to work on his night skin care regime. Santana ignores him as she studies his back, the pillow, and compares, eventually returning to filing her nails absentmindedly.

Hours later, once they've both thoroughly exhausted any last minute reading (in her case) or emailing (in his), he drifts off, her own gaze wandering over to him when she hears a soft snore, muffled by the fabric of the arm-pillow. Kurt hugs the pillow closer to himself even as she watches, breathing deep and even.

The tightness of his grip, the desperation to hold and be held, makes her stomach clench.

When she finally turns away from him, she doesn't know how to feel. Part of her wants to be incredulous, exasperated, annoyed even at his own stubbornness. Another part is quiet, respectful, distance, knowing that it isn't her place to intrude on this moment, to steal thisone thing from him.

Her more invasive search yields even less surprising - if more notable - results.

In his drawer, buried underneath half a dozen random shirts, there's a gray hoodie with a tiny Dalton insignia on the front that smells like Anderson. Underneath it, there's a picture of Hummel and he preening as they pose for their prom picture. The rest of his drawers yield mostly clothing, tossed aside with casual ease until her fingers close around a small red case.

She pulls it out and, slipping her fingers under the edge, pries it open.

A tiny, slightly crumpled bow tie ring appears.

Thumbing the Juicy Fruit wrappers absentmindedly, wondering how many hours Anderson spent slaving over it, she closes it carefully, setting it back on top of the drawer. Kurt sleeps on, oblivious, as she rocks back on her heels.

At last, she replaces the clothes, the picture, even the hoodie - but not the ring.

She leaves it on the counter as she dissembles the rest of the apartment, picking it up once she's finished. It isn't that she's ever particularly cared about anyone's relationships - she could care less about the sexual exploits of disgusting, smelly teenagers, Glee clubbers or not - but there's something different about the ring. Something tragic.

Brushing it off, shutting it, and replacing it in the drawer, Santana crawls into bed that night and wonders why.

She doesn't play nice with Adam the next day - she doesn't play nice with Drug Dealer, either, but he's a different story - and she isn't surprised when Hummel acts indignant and upset and harried by it all. He can pretend all he wants, but he's flustered, and she knows why, and she isn't afraid to call him out on it.

Stop this, she wants to say, looking at him be perfectly miserable with someone that he doesn't want. Stop being so stupid.

Sometimes, she doesn't know why she cares at all. Hummel doesn't appreciate it, and Berry's already in a fluff about it, and it's not like they've ever welcomed her input.

So she backs off. Even after Berry makes her ridiculous phone call and 'proves' that Drug Dealer isn't, in fact, a drug dealer, she doesn't comment, instead offering the most painfully approving smile that she can. She lets the British Wonder seduce Hummel with his obnoxious Downton Abbey impressions and even consents to watching part of Moulin Rouge with them so that she doesn't have to listen to Berry sing in the shower.

And then she finds it.

The stick.

And things are different.

She confronts Rachel, and it isn't a confrontation, not so much as it is an intervention.

And when Rachel breaks down, she pulls her into her arms and holds her.

She doesn't know why she does it. She doesn't even like Berry.

But there are lines, and there are unspoken rules that must not be broken, and this is one of them: no one deserves to endure alone.

Not even Berry.

They might not have been close in Glee club, and they might not even strive for closeness now, but they need it. They need each other, and accepting that and using it to strengthen their relationship instead of destroying it is . . .

It's calming.

Five weeks later when Trouty Mouth tells her that Anderson has been shot during a school shooting, it has the opposite effect.

She doesn't feel secure or in control or even remotely capable of comforting Hummel, grounding him. Her mind leaps to Brittany and panic, hot and terrifying, almost consumes her. Outwardly, she stays calm, somehow managing to stay standing in the center of the floor on the phone while Hummel curses and scrambles and curses some more, loudly, violently, throwing a few necessities into a small bag and slinging it over his shoulder.

She doesn't need to know what it's for.

All she does after that is tell Trouty Mouth that they're on their way and hang up.

It takes hours for the pseudo calm to break. One moment, she's sitting halfway across the waiting area at the terminal, alternately texting anyone that she can think of and checking the time; the next, she's pulling Hummel into a hug, piecing him back together as his world slowly comes apart.

For a time, it seems to work. Hummel calms down and they have a flight to catch, and she manages to not focus on reality long enough to get lost in her music, almost startling when the pilot announces that they'll be descending shortly. She keeps herself in check and leads the way. She texts the Hummels about their situation when Hummel does nothing, and when they finally arrive at the hospital, she pulls Brittany into a hug and forgets about him as she holds her closer and breathes.

But she doesn't forget about him. She doesn't forget about them.

She doesn't forget about them even as she assures Brittany that she'll take care of everything, that everything's fine now and they're safe. She doesn't forget about them as she surveys the new New Directions, haggard and terrified and shocked to the core. She doesn't forget about them when she looks them in the eyes and sees only fear and relief, heartfelt but unspoken.

For once, she doesn't say it - doesn't say what they're all thinking.

I'm glad it wasn't mine. My boyfriend, my girlfriend, my best friend.

She just silently vows not to let this go. Not to let Hummel minimize or dismiss this.

Because this is more than a pillow, a hoodie, a picture tucked away in secret. It's more than an ignored phone call or text or a bouquet tossed in the trash. It's more than a hand-crafted promise ring, even, more than hours of whispered promises and stolen kisses when they think no one else is around, no one else is looking (because she's always the intruder, always and ever more).

No. It's about a life. It's about their lives.

This is about all of them.

And Santana isn't going to let it go.

* * *

"You can't avoid it forever," are the first words out of her mouth when Kurt slides into the chair across from her.

He raises an eyebrow at her, fingers deftly unwrapping a sandwich as he opens a bottle of water. "Can't avoid what?" he asks, already taking a bite. "Where's Brittany?" he adds stupidly, looking around the deli.

"She's on her way," Santana dismisses, watching him intently. Willing him to see. "You can't honestly tell me that you're going to stay with the British Wonder after this."

Kurt pauses mid-bite, swallowing carefully and taking a long sip from his water. He doesn't say anything for a long time, chewing methodically. At last, he responds quietly, "His name's Adam, and it's none of your business."

"You sleep with a pillow shaped like him," Santana deadpans. "You keep a picture of him in your drawer at night. You have a hoodie with his - "

"Enough," Kurt quips, sharp and irrefutable. She leans back in her chair, hands spread slightly in a challenging gesture. "Stop it. You know why we broke up. I'm not going to - to - " He swallows, then, his cheeks pinking even as the rest of his complexion pales. "I can't just . . . I can't go back to him."

"Then why did you come back?" Santana retorts dryly. "Because you wanted to see if the headlines were true?"

"He's still my best friend," Kurt protests. "I had to make sure he was okay." Reaching up a hand to rub his forehead, he adds, "Why do you even care?"

Santana sets aside her drink, then, and says seriously, "I care because he almost died. I care because you're miserable. I care because I live with you, and I'm sick of you avoiding what clearly makes you happy when you can have it so easily."

Kurt's face loses its remaining color as he shakes his head, looking aside. "It's not that simple," he says.

"It could be," Santana retorts, almost gently, as she spots Brittany by the door and waves her over. "It's your choice."

Kurt frowns, leaving the rest of his sandwich untouched for the remainder of their brief lunch.

* * *

"What are you doing here?"

Kurt's voice comes out thinner than he likes, sounding more fragile than he wants. He can't help it, though; they lowered the dose on Blaine's pain medication again and he hasn't been able to focus on anything other than his soft, distressed noises he made whenever a nurse or doctor came in to evaluate his shoulder. With substantial damage to the area where the bullet lodged, Blaine's 'discomfort' is understandable.

Putting Blaine in even more pain is something Kurt will never understand, even if it is necessary for a steady recovery.

Santana looks at him as he approaches, muscles still tense from resisting the urge to intervene. They didn't have to let him stay - and initially they cautioned him not to - but he couldn't leave. He couldn't.

"I wanted to apologize," Santana says coolly.

Kurt blinks, wondering if he dozed off again. "You - "

"Want to apologize, yes." She shrugs as he sinks down into the chair across from her, openly staring. "It's not my place to tell you how to live your life, even if I don't think you should keep doing this to yourself."

Kurt sighs, shaking his head. "It's - it's not like that, okay?" he says, words tumbling out of his mouth without his permission. He can't stop them, though, as he adds, "I love him. I do, I just - I can't leave Adam, he's - "

"In love with you," Santana finishes. Kurt winces, wanting to deny it, wanting to say that he's not, that he might even have strong feelings for Kurt and a desire to pursue a more serious relationship but he's not in love with him -

But he knows it's true.

"Adam's my. . . ." His throat constricts a little, feeling traitorous and wrong as he says, "Adam's my boyfriend now, and that's final."

"Is it?" Santana pulls out a nail filer, quietly whisking away at the edges of her nails as she adds, "He called me earlier, you know. Asking if everything was 'all right.'"

Kurt frowns and checks his phone. Three missed calls.

"I told him that you and Hair Gel were fine," Santana dismisses, not looking up from her nails, blowing on them gently to remove the nail fragments before resuming.

Kurt's fingers hover over the keys on his phone, willing a suitable response to come to him. Nothing does. Even a simple I'm sorry for missing your calls rings flat to him.

Because he wasn't. Not when Blaine needed him.

Quietly, he pockets it, breathing out raggedly as he tries to contain the emotions threatening to burst out of him. Part of him wants to scream that it isn't fair - that he was already almost over Blaine, that they'd barely spoken in a month and that was progress, right? They still Skyped together and talked about spring break and the end of the year and graduation and competitions, but it wasn't -

He was with Adam.

Not Blaine.

And yet . . .

It isn't Adam that he calls late at night when he can't sleep or needs a friendly ear for advice. It isn't Adam that he dreams about, benign or otherwise, and it isn't Adam that he wakes up hoping to be next to. It isn't Adam that he imagines when he wraps his arms around his boyfriend pillow, and it isn't Adam that he breathes in when he pulls on his soft Dalton hoodie.

"I want to be over him," Kurt says at last quietly. "I really, really do."

"But do you want to be over Adam, or Blaine?"

Kurt winces, pinching the bridge of his nose. "He cheated on me," he said, voice trembling a little. "H-he cheated on m-me, and I can't trust him, but I can't - I can't let him go."

"Then don't," Santana replies simply. "Don't let him go."

Kurt says nothing, dropping his hand and breathing out slowly. Santana leaves him after a time, offering only a brief squeeze to his shoulder before departing.

Don't let him go.

Kurt pulls out his phone, stares at the three missed calls once more, before writing, He needs me.

And then, dreading the response: I need him.

Sitting beside Blaine's bedside once more, listening to his slow, exhausted, sleepless breaths, he reaches out and intertwines their fingers. Blaine squeezes his hand once, stronger than before but not as strong as he once was before letting his grip ease.

Kurt checks his phone only once, when it vibrates.

I understand.

He closes his eyes, rests his forehead against Blaine's bed, and tries to feel something other than relief.


	8. Chapter 8

Blaine squeezes Kurt's hand when it slips into his own, curling his fingers around it.

It's hard to remember that they're not officially together when they're like this. Sometimes he thinks that if he closes his eyes and waits long enough, he'll wake up and feel different. Things will be okay again. Maybe he'll wake up and the shooting will have just been a nightmare, the constant ache in his shoulder nothing more than too much strain during a Cheerios' practice.

He wants to believe it. He wants Sam to approach him any second now and shake him out of his doze, handing him back the set list for their Guilty Pleasures week. He wouldn't even mind if it was Artie nudging him too hard in the leg or Sugar squealing in his ear. He's waiting and waiting and waiting, and no one comes, and slowly his hope fades away.

When he opens his eyes, it's real. He can't ignore the pain in his shoulder, a slight furrow appearing between his brows. It's hard to take it all in, to accept that two days ago, he stood in McKinley's hall readying himself to leave for the day when everything changed. If he'd been five minutes faster - or even ten seconds slower - then he could have avoided it. He could be sitting outside the Lima Bean right now drinking coffee and working on Glee club assignments, or at Sam's collaborating on choreography and outfits for their latest showstopping number, or even at the mall with Tina helping her pick out a new accessory while largely window-shopping.

He'd be texting Kurt about his day and plans for the week, not sitting next to him.

Tilting his head to look at him, he lets out a slow breath. Kurt has his phone out, his mouth pursed as he looks down at a message on the screen. "Who are you texting?" Blaine rasps, startling him.

Kurt's head jerks up, his fingers involuntarily tightening around Blaine's before he says, "No one." Then, softening, he relents, "It's Adam," as he pockets his phone. "Don't tell Santana."

"Why would I - " Blaine swallows thickly, his mouth dry, and continues, "Why would I tell her?"

"Here, I can get you a water - "

"Kurt."

"Or do you want a nurse? I can page one, too - "

"Kurt."

Kurt sighs, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose with his free hand. Blaine rubs the back of his knuckles soothingly with his thumb, trying to instill of a sense of It's okay, you can talk to me about your new boyfriend even as his chest tightens a little at the thought.

He knows that this is a stressful time for all of them. Even knowing that he can't, not now, he still wishes that he could pull everyone aside in the choir room and just talk to them, tell them that it'll be okay, that they'll get through this, that he survived being attacked four years ago and he's still standing, isn't he? He wants to comfort and reassure and pat arms and squeeze hands and offer hugs wherever he can, but he can't, because he's hooked up to too many machines and reliant on too many medications, all of which are keeping at bay a pain almost too extreme to cope with.

Denying Kurt the ability to voice his longing for Adam - however might it pains him to think that Kurt has that longing - isn't right. It's not fair to him, sitting at his bedside for - hours, he's sure, if his sketchy memory serves at all. Consciousness is painful, but he's learning to cope with it, learning to breathe through it instead of gasping each time he surfaces, frantic and desperate to break free, to run away, run away, run away.

"He's worried about you," Kurt says at last, quietly, pulling out his phone as it vibrates and biting his lip. Even more softly, he adds, "I'm worried about you."

"I'm worried about you," Blaine murmurs, grateful that his voice is even clearer than he remembers. There's only a soft slur between them, and he almost asks Kurt if he wouldn't mind filling the Dixie cup beside his bed - almost, but doesn't, because a shadow crosses Kurt's face and he knows, suddenly, that he's on thin ice. That a single wrong word could plunge them both through. "Kurt?"

"You shouldn't be," he says. "We're not - " He draws in a deep breath, then, slowly exhaling as he says, "You need to worry about you right now. Your system's already under enough stress, and - "

"Do you want to be?"

Kurt freezes, every muscle stilling as he slowly, slowly leans back in his seat. He doesn't say a word for a very long time, Blaine's hand gently keeping a hold on his own when they loosen - not resisting, but not supporting, either. "I - I -" It's his turn to swallow, then, and an offer to get him a glass of water is on Blaine's lips before he remembers that he can't do that.

There's a lot of things that he won't be able to do for a long time, they warn.

Still, he has one good arm, and that's what matters. He'll have two good arms within a year, and that's what keeps him sane.

"I love Adam," he blurts, and Blaine's grip loosens a little in spite of himself, three simple words cutting him deeper than he thought possible. He almost pulls his hand out of Kurt's, then, almost closes his eyes and pretends that this never happened, either. Maybe he won't wake up one day and Kurt and he will be happy and together again, but maybe he'll be able to look at Kurt and whomever he chooses to spend the rest of his life with and not feel so terribly, wrenchingly powerless.

"Hey," Kurt says, his voice suddenly soft and nervous and anxious, slipping his hand out of Blaine's grip - and Blaine's fingers close around nothing, then, desperate to keep a hold on him somehow, any hold - before reaching up to cup his cheek. Blaine looks away, knowing that he can't do it, not now. He can't look Kurt in the eye and smile, offer his blessing that he finds the man that he wants to spend the rest of his life with, Adam or otherwise. He can barely breathe, fumbling for an adequate response - approval conflicting with every instinct he seemingly possesses - before Kurt speaks.

"I'm not in love with him," he says, and some of the knots in Blaine's chest ease. "I - I've tried to - to be with him, to - " He swallows, and Blaine's eyelids slide shut. He can't look at him, doesn't dare open his eyes and let the agony betray him - Kurt always says that he wears his heart on his sleeve, and it's impossible to hide it now - but he can't do it. He can't look at Kurt and smile and encourage him to rip his heart to pieces, to bare his chest and invite more pain even as he's already trying to privately, quietly conceal and repair the wound already there.

He'd thought it might have healed, at last, after so many months of separation. After so long accepting and knowing - over and over and over again - that Kurt and he can't be together, that they can make compromises and be friends again but they can't be them again.

It hasn't healed, though, and the sudden, overwhelming reality that Kurt wants to be with someone else makes him want to be sick.

"I didn't - I never told him that we - " Kurt pauses, takes a deep breath, and finishes, "I never told him about what we did at Mr. Schue's wedding."

Blaine doesn't know what to say. His fingers curl around nothing, clenching into a loose fist; he doesn't know what to do with that, either, and so he opens his eyes and looks at Kurt, waiting for the inevitable.

I can't be like this with you if I'm going to be with him. You're amazing, Blaine, and I love being your friend, but I can't keep coming back to you like this. I can't keep texting or calling or Skyping you. I can't plan visits around our breaks or meet you for coffee when I'm here. I can't be with you anymore. I need to move on.

"You - " he doesn't know how he finds the strength to say it, finishing delicately, "you were . . . with someone while you were dating him?"

"I'm not . . . I'mnotdatinghim," Kurt says in a rush, and it's like he's unleashed a torrent. "I think he's amazing and he's incredibly sweet and he loves music and he takes me out for coffee and we watch romantic comedies together, but he's not . . . he doesn't know what keeps me up at night. He doesn't know about my friends here or my experiences here. He doesn't understand my job at Vogue, or my obsession with fashion sites, or why I never wear bow ties anymore. He doesn't see that . . . I'm lonely. Even with three crazy room mates and all my clubs and my internship, I'm just . . . I feel really, really alone. And I know that it's because no matter how often I meet him for coffee or take him out to window-shop or go on a dinner date, we're not . . . he's not you."

Kurt snakes his hand back down to Blaine's, then, and gives it a single hard squeeze. "I know that . . . we've talked about moving on, but I don't think I can. I can't leave you. At Mr. Schue's wedding, that was . . . that was the first thing that really mattered to me in a long time. Being with you, even if it was for just one night, was . . . it meant everything. I didn't know how I was supposed to leave you, then, and so I left and . . . I didn't look back." Squeezing his hand, he adds, "I can't move forward without you. Adam and I, we've . . . we've kissed, but it's not the same. It's never the same."

"I - " Blaine's voice cracks, eyes dry as he finishes, "I hurt you."

He's not gonna trust me, he's never gonna forgive me.

He waits. And waits.

Kurt stays quiet for a long time, looking at him, and Blaine can almost see Adam on the other side of the room, warm eyes and hand extended, ready to whisk Kurt away forever. And here he is, with only the broken remnants of his relationship to cling to, needing, wanting, hopelessly devoted.

"I know," Kurt says at last. Blaine's hand slackens in Kurt's grip, his fingers suddenly cold. Kurt doesn't let him pull away, tightening his own hold when Blaine tugs on it, pleading release. If that's the end of it, then -

"I don't want to be angry at you anymore," Kurt continues, squeezing his hand. "I'm tired of . . . of hating this about you when I know it isn't you. You're so much more to me, Blaine, and I - " He composes himself, his phone vibrating once, twice, incessantly on his knee. He ignores it, until the last buzz runs its course, finishing softly, "I want to be with you. I want to look forward to our time together again. I want to be able to introduce you to people and be introduced to your people without knowing what to say. I want to be in your life again, B, and I'm . . . I don't want to fight it anymore. I don't want to give it up."

Blaine can't swallow the thickness in his throat, can barely breathe as he asks, "What about - Adam?"

"We were never officially together," Kurt reiterates quietly, a rueful tinge creeping into his voice. "I mean, you could call what we were 'dating,' but it wasn't . . . it wasn't exclusive." Shuffling a little closer, he adds, "I love him, I do, but . . . I'm in love with you, Blaine."

Blaine feels almost dizzied by it, the sincerity of the simple statement, a tear slipping out of his hold as he squeezes Kurt's hand. "Come - c'mere," he stammers, tugging on Kurt's hand, and Kurt obliges, standing and, as Blaine lifts his left arm gingerly and curls it around his shoulder, doing the same. "I - I love you so much," he breathes, Kurt's closeness and warmth and ease almost overwhelming. It's not perfect, and it aches, and he's barely strong enough to even cling to the back of Kurt's shirt, but it feels . . . it's the closest that they've been in months. And it's perfect.

"I love you, too," Kurt echoes, kissing his temple once lightly.

And as Blaine leans back and releases him, he knows that he's finally found a reality that he wants to wake up to.


	9. Chapter 9

Blaine drifts between wakefulness and sleep.

It's hard to distinguish the two realities. Behind one lens, he sees the shooter, a starkly defined figure with malice in his heart and a wicked gleam in her eyes. He can't define anything about him - her - it - the enemy, the intruder, the weapon.

He doesn't ask. He doesn't ask Kurt to divulge the secrets behind the shooting. He doesn't text any of the others in the middle of the night, quietly biding his time between increasingly feeble doses of pain medication. It makes him sharper, more alert, more coherent - and also more cripplingly aware of the pain. He doesn't know exactly how it works, why he's so hyper aware one moment, heart pounding as he stares at the empty walls, the missing faces and wonders what happened next?

It replays itself in his mind repeatedly. He sees the shooter prowling the halls, a gun hanging almost lazily from her hand. No - his entire frame is vibrating, anger and fear bleeding into one as the barrel of the gun, takes aim, explodes -

He wakes before the next shot.

Sometimes the first one hits Sam. Sometimes it hits Brittany. Sometimes it's Kurt, Santana, Rachel. Others it's a combination of them - Marley, Jake, Tina, Kitty. Enemies and friends alike fall to the crossfire, and enemies and friends alike pull the trigger. At once, he wakes from a vivid dream of Sebastian leveling a gun at his face with a soft, unheard, You should have come back, reverberating through him before the first shot.

But he always wakes before the next shot. It goes blurry between one blink and the next - one moment he's doubled over in agony, trying to stem the pain and process what's happening, the next, staring emptily at the dark ceiling above him. He wakes a dozen times that night, and each time it's a little harder to convince himself that it isn't real. That it wasn't Sebastian or Hunter. That it wasn't Finn or Rachel or Kurt.

He doesn't text Kurt about it. He could - he wants to - but he doesn't. He's coherent enough for that, at least, and a panicked text about Sebastian firing a gun at McKinley sounds absurd to his own ears. Kurt doesn't need to worry about him losing his mind on top of everything.

But he doesn't think of it that way. He can't. He's not losing his mind, but he's lost something, and in his next dream, it isn't a gun at all.

It's them, and they're closing in on him, grabbing him, beating him, tearing him apart.

He wakes drenched in sweat. When a nurse offers him a sedative, he gladly accepts, drifting off into a dreamless, restful sleep.

He tries to focus on the good, the next morning. Kurt is there - of course he is, where else would he be? - and aside from the slight, concerned crease to his brow, he seems relieved to see him. Blaine assures that his own appearance is purely coincidental, that the combination of pain medication and trauma and no hair gel leaves him a little rugged around the edges. Kurt side-eyes him, knowing but not asking, and they drift into quiet, meaningless conversation after that.

It's comforting.

Blaine is reluctant to let him go at all, but his eyelids are heavy and between one blink and the next, he's gone.

A soft, insistent knock on the doorjamb brings him back to consciousness.

"Hey, Blainey days," Marley greets, knocking on the doorjamb once more to announce her presence as she steps into the room.

Blaine tilts his head to look at her, confusion melting away into relief as he beckons her forward with a hand. "Mar - " He clears his throat, sitting up a little straighter. It hurts, but he's starting to learn that everything is manageable in small quantities, even pain. He can do this. He has to. "Marley. Hey."

"I hope you know that Tina's livid that she still isn't on the list," Marley adds lightly, sliding into the chair beside him and leaning forward to kiss his cheek once. Affectionate. "How are you feeling? Do you need anything?"

Blaine shakes his head a little as she sits back in the chair. "I'm good," he insists. "Where's Kurt?"

"He went to pick up your brother," Marley explains. "Cooper?"

"Coop's here?" Blaine almost thinks this is a dream, too, his heart rate increasing a little at the thought. The half-dreams tend to end with disturbing twists on reality; he can almost hear the muted footsteps of the shooter in the hall, her heels, his boots tapping against the floorboards. Thankfully, the heart rate monitor at his side echoes the solitary tattoo, reminding him that this is reality, that he's safe here. He's safe.

"... caught a late flight," Marley continues, seemingly oblivious to his distraction. "He said your parents were at a seminar in Colorado?"

"They're doctors," Blaine agrees, faintly. "They should be ..." He licks his lips, trying to ignore the heaviness in his own voice as he says, "They should be back by Monday. At least, that's what they said before they left. They can't miss it."

Marley nods once, understandingly, her brow creasing a little as she says, "Anyway, your brother finally arrived after a five hour delay. Kurt went to pick him up."

Relief seeps into Blaine in spite of himself. He might not have always had the best relationship with Cooper - and really, that's an understatement, given their prior conflicts and increasing chasm between them - but there's something immensely reassuring about having him near. He was there then, too, letting him cry quietly into his shoulder, just holding him too tightly and promising not to let him go.

He doesn't feel like crying now. He doesn't really know how he feels, after this.

Marley lets him absorb the new information, reaching forward after a moment to give his hand a brief squeeze. "You're cold," she notes, cupping his hand in both of hers. "You okay? Aside from ... you know."

"You know," Blaine quips, a soft, rueful smile curling his lips as he squeezes her hand once, hard. He doesn't know. He can't. "It's a lot to take in," he allows.

Marley nods. "It's ... different, that's for sure," she agrees. "Sam's calmed down a lot since he saw you, though, and everyone else seems to be taking their cue from him."

Blaine nods once, thinking that if ever there were a time when he was grateful for Sam's levelheadedness, now was the time. "Good," is all he says. "They should."

"That doesn't mean you get off the hook," she reminds him seriously, squeezing his hand. "You still have to get better. You're my boo."

"I thought Jake and Ryder were your closest boy friends?"

"Oh no," Marley says, shaking her head as she rubs his hand between her own slowly. "No. They're my friends. You're my boo. That doesn't change."

Blaine hums softly, considering that. "You might have some competition," he warns. "I'm pretty sure Brittany's convinced I'm her boo."

"Brittany thinks you're a hobbit," Marley corrects, rolling her eyes when he pouts at her. "It's true."

"Of course." Reaching up to rub at his eyes with his free hand, he adds quietly, "How is everyone? Really?"

Marley stays silent for a long time, looking down at their hands. He tries to squeeze hers back reassuringly, but he's still a little off-center, still stunned that all of this is really happening. "Rattled," she says at last, bringing him back to the present and anchoring him there. "Processing the fact that this actually happened."

What happened?

He doesn't realize that he's spoken aloud until she sighs.

"Keeping me in the dark isn't helping me," he adds, soft but stern, and he can almost feel her cave as she squeezes his hand once again, hard.

"It ... some guy ... his name's Miller," she begins, staring at the IV bag over his head. He keeps his gaze focused on her, not letting her escape this, needing to hear it. Needing it. To stop the nightmares, if nothing else.

Or enhance them, a quiet, uneasy side of him remarks.

He shuts it out pointedly as he listens.

"Richard Miller. He is - was - a junior. He was cut from the football program a week ago after beating up one of his team mates in the locker room. They're still working out the details, but he tested positive for steroids."

Blaine frowns, absorbing the new information, his fingers flexing slightly as though he can curl them around the knowledge and understand it better that way. Comprehend how a simple locker room fight and a lost position on the football team could escalate so quickly. Just thinking about the shooting itself makes him feel sick to his stomach.

"They don't think ... you were the target," Marley continues, almost gently. "They think he was trying to kill Coach Beiste."

"Why would they - " He has to swallow, then, his throat dry. "Why would he do that?"

"She cut him from the team," Marley says simply. "She was right in front of him when he fired it, but ... he missed."

And hit you.

"She got him under control before anyone else was hurt," Marley assures quickly. A dull weight settles in his stomach, and he tentatively labels it relief.

No one else was hurt.

You didn't have to be.

He shuts out the mutinous voice and nods once, feeling vaguely sick. "Thank you," he says.

"I'm sorry," Marley replies.

He squeezes her hand once tightly.

* * *

Cooper doesn't hear about the news immediately.

It takes eight hours for the story itself to works its way to him, the constant flurry of being on set of his latest fledgling TV show keeping him occupied for the day. He doesn't think twice about it, at first - tragic though it may be, he has a job interview to attend and, according to his agent, it's one that he can't miss - until names like Ohio and small town begin circulating their way into the conversations.

Then he starts listening. He starts asking questions, flushed with the satisfaction of a successful interview and eager to meet his next challenge. His excitement quickly fades when someone tosses out the name Lima without a second thought, a slightly morose if otherwise unaffected tone to his voice. Cooper can't ask it, then, doesn't dare say it for a long time until he sees William McKinley High School flash across the ticker at the bottom of the TV screen in the studio.

He's out of his chair and out the door almost before anyone thinks to try and stop him.

His agent calls him and forces him to settle his plans for the week before taking off, including meeting with several of his superiors on the show and confirming it with them. It's agonizing, waiting for everyone else to catch up and understand his urgency. He can barely sit still, reigning his patience in tightly in order to keep a civil tongue.

At last, he makes it to the airport. It isn't easy, and they're understandably jammed, and the soonest flight that he can make is tomorrow, but he takes it, and he waits, sitting in the terminal texting Kurt and his agent and half a dozen other people.

The flight is delayed and he almost tears his hair out. Somehow, he keeps his calm, boarding with clipped movements and tapping his foot impatiently for half the flight. Plugging in his iPod, he tries to lose himself in his music, but even that doesn't have its appeal, doesn't quell the sick feeling in his stomach.

He's not dead. He's not dead, he's not dying, he's not going to die.

It isn't until he finally yanks the door to Blaine's room open and pulls him into a hug - Blaine whimpers and he eases his grip, sliding his arms lower across his back and holding him tighter - that he can breathe again.

"Don't you ever scare me like that again," he says in a low voice, silent tears blotting the fabric of Blaine's hospital gown. He doesn't know where they're from - he doesn't cry, he's never been the fucking crier - but there they are, unstoppable, irretrievable. It doesn't matter, somehow, not with Blaine finally in his arms again, alive and well and whole. Breathing, if not unbroken.

"Don't you fucking dare," he insists. "You can't keep doing this to me, B."

"I missed you, too, Coop," Blaine says in a small voice, clinging back just as tightly. Cooper doesn't notice the girl beside him as she makes a quiet retreat, Kurt sinking into the chair beside them.

All he knows is that he's not going to let anyone hurt Blaine. Never again.

It takes him a very long time to let go.


	10. Chapter 10

"Do you want us to stay?" Burt asks seriously.

Cooper shakes his head, keeping one arm firmly wrapped around Blaine's waist. Once, he might have accepted the offer gladly - might have even bargained for Blaine to stay at the Hummels' house, relieving him of the duty entirely - but things are different now. In a way, they always have been between them. "We can handle it," he assures. "If we need anything, I'll call."

Burt nods once, car keys in hand. "Don't hesitate," is all he says, stepping back so Kurt can slip in around him. Cooper doesn't let go of Blaine even when Kurt wraps his arms around him, hugging Blaine gently before letting go with a whispered promise that Cooper doesn't quite catch. He doesn't mind: it isn't his place to know. There is Blaine's relationship with Cooper (rocky though it may be), and Blaine's relationship with other people, and then there's Blaine's relationship with Kurt.

It's different. It's quiet and deep and untouchable.

It's more.

Cooper doesn't say anything about it. It's not his place. He doesn't know.

He isn't proud to say that he can only marginally claim to know Blaine better than a stranger.

"Thank you for the ride," he settles on. "Rides," he corrects, addressing Kurt.

"Don't mention it," Burt replies. Kurt says nothing, inclining his head slightly after a moment. "Let us know if anything changes."

"We will," Cooper says, easing the door shut when Burt nods and turns away, Kurt following with obvious reluctance. It isn't that Cooper wants to shut them out, but he has enough to process without having to keep up appearances for guests. That's what they are to him, really; Blaine's friends, Blaine's extended family, Blaine's boyfriend. Strangers in a small town.

"C'mon, squirt," he says quietly, guiding Blaine to the stairs. Keeping a firm hand on his back, he lets Blaine set the pace, only giving him a little nudge when he slumps against the wall, five steps from the top. "You can do it." Blaine doesn't move, and Cooper almost thinks that he's somehow managed to fall asleep like that before lurching forward, covering the last few steps without pause.

Steering him down the hall towards his room, Cooper can't help but side-eye the empty room between Blaine's and his. He doesn't need to nudge the door open to know whom it belongs to.

Cooper's own room at the opposite end of the hall is immaculate, untouched and unlived in for the better part of six years. He left Ohio and didn't look back: visits were perfunctory and few, major holidays at first, intermittent reminders of his existence after the first two years. Life in the big city was too chaotic to afford family visits, and if he missed a birthday or two, at least he was able to perform as an extra on a variety of shows, building up his resume for future appearances. It wasn't like their parents could claim perfect attendance, either, and once Blaine had the Warblers to hang out with, he didn't need a family.

Opening the door to Blaine's room, he can't help but think of how much more lived in it looks.

"That's quite a collection," he says, unable to help himself as he sits Blaine near the headboard, looking over at the collage on the wall. "Where'd all the photos come from?"

"Six years," Blaine quips dryly, eyes closed.

Cooper winces, scanning the photos and silently absorbing the memories, the stories. The people.

"Did you like it there?" Cooper asks, crouching down so he can unlace Blaine's shoes.

Blaine's eyes slide open to slits, a frown pursing his lips as he watches Cooper. "What do you mean?"

"McKinley. Did you like it there?" Cooper finishes pulling off his shoes, gesturing for Blaine to swing his legs around so he's lying on the bed itself.

Blaine doesn't move. "I'm not running away, Coop."

"It's not safe."

"You think Dalton is?" Blaine retorts.

"It's safer," Cooper insists, ignoring the bitter tone to Blaine's voice. He doesn't know where it came from. He isn't sure he wants to.

Blaine says nothing, clenching his jaw and shifting until his legs are on the bed. Cooper waits for him to respond, patiently sitting back on his heels until at last he rocks back to his feet. Picking up the plaid blanket at the end of the bed, he drapes it over Blaine's legs, a flicker of relief crossing Blaine's expression as he eases back against the headboard, wincing when his bandaged shoulder comes to rest against the pillows. Wondering if he would be better stopping while he's already behind, Cooper glances back at the photos, almost missing Blaine's comment next entirely.

"They're my friends. I'm not leaving them."

"You're not running away if you're doing it to protect yourself," Cooper points out, sitting on the bed beside him. "It doesn't make you a coward."

Blaine draws in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "They're my friends," he repeats. "Where else would I go?"

It's Cooper's turn to remain silent.

"Are you comfortable?" he asks at last, offering Blaine one of the pillows on the floor and propping it behind his back when he nods.

"Perfectly," Blaine grunts. Relaxing once he's found a more comfortable position, he adds, "Thank you."

"You're welcome." Cooper shifts on the bed, resting a hand on Blaine's foot. "Our parents are kind of assholes," he comments, almost lightly.

Blaine rolls his eyes, nudging his hand with his foot. "Be nice."

"I'm serious," Cooper says, looking him in the eye. "I mean, I'm kind of an asshole, too, but - "

"Lemme get the camera," Blaine murmurs. "I should record that for future reference."

Cooper squeezes his foot, only partially teasing. "Come on. Turning over a new leaf, remember?"

Blaine nods slowly. "You did good, Coop."

"I'm not done with you yet," Cooper reminds pointedly. "We need to ... we've gotta figure this out, B. Once Mom and Dad get back, we'll ... we'll figure this out."

"They're doctors," Blaine reminds dully. "You're a movie star."

"Biding movie star," Cooper corrects.

A tiny smile quirks the edges of Blaine's lips. "Fine. Biding movie star. Either way, it's not like ... talking about it will make it better. It is what it is."

"I'm gonna change it, then," Cooper insists, unwilling to be deterred. "I'll come back more. We can Skype together. I'll invite you to my big movie debut."

Blaine doesn't respond immediately, wincing as he shifts again. "Don't make promises you can't keep, Coop," he warns quietly, seriously. "I don't...." He looks down at his feet, Cooper's hand still resting on the one, and finishes softly, "I just ... don't wanna get my hopes up, okay?"

"You're my brother," Cooper says, getting up and pulling him into a hug. "This is what brothers are for. Making promises and sticking to them."

Blaine rests his forehead against Cooper's shoulder, his right arm limp in its sling, his left curled around Cooper's back weakly. "Thank you," he murmurs.

"Any time," Cooper replies, easing him back onto the pillows. "I'll go grab you a Tylenol, okay?"

Blaine relaxes, nodding as he reaches up to rub his eyes again. "Thank you," he echoes.

Cooper squeezes his foot one last time before leaving him, padding downstairs and retrieving the bag of medications that the Hummels had helpfully stopped by the pharmacy to grab.

By the time he returns, Blaine is asleep, slouched against the headboard and snoring softly. Switching off the overhead light and tucking the blankets around him a little more securely, Cooper fishes Blaine's phone out of his pocket and sets it on the nightstand, placing the bottle of water and pills beside it. Making sure that he's as comfortable as he can be and not likely to roll off the bed, Cooper pads out of the room, leaving the door open behind himself.

Passing the empty room once more, he lingers at the doorway, one hand nudging it open so he can look inside of it. He doesn't linger long, then, shutting the door and stepping into his own room instead.

He toes off his shoes, shrugs out of his jacket, and collapses face-first on the bed, tension easing as he lets himself take in the fact that he's here.

Blaine's here.

As he drifts off to sleep, it's a comforting thought.

* * *

"I hope you know that ... I'm proud of you."

Kurt tilts his head to look at Burt, one eyebrow arching. It's raining, and all he wants to do is go home and enjoy a nice, warm home-cooked meal and settle down for a movie marathon with Finn. Anything to get his mind away from recent events. He knows it's impossible, but the idea of letting go of the tension, of knowing that Blaine is in good hands for now and he can breathe, is tempting. Even Sam left his vigil in the hospital waiting room to spend a few hours with his brother and sister, reminding them that he's still someone beyond this tragedy, that life continues.

Aware that he hasn't responded and Burt hasn't said anything more, he asks, mouth dry, "For what?"

"Realizing that there are some things in life worth fighting for." Looking over at him briefly, Burt adds, "I know that ... what Blaine did was a terrible thing. And you have every right to not want to be with him." Letting that sink in, he drives in silence, watching the light rain mist down.

"People do terrible things, and we have to learn to forgive them. People are going to hurt you. Even those closest to you. How you respond ... it'll change your life. And I think what you're doing takes a lot of courage, kid. Letting someone like Blaine back into your life takes a hell of a lot of courage."

Kurt tries to think of an adequate response, watching the houses pass by for several long moments. It's calming.

"I haven't forgiven him," he asserts quietly, "but I'm trying."

"If you try and it doesn't work, we won't think less of you," Burt says. "If you don't try at all, we won't think less of you, either. But you'll never know what you might have missed out on, either."

The rest of the drive is silent.


	11. Chapter 11

Normalcy settles over Lima, Ohio once more as a new week begins.

Football players resume their after school practices. The rigorous twice-a-day workouts that Coach Sylvester forces her Cheerios to endure recommence, and other sports slowly follow their leads. Teams reunite for the first time in almost a week to squeeze in final preparation for upcoming competitions. They still have to compete in order to secure their scholarships, and the leniency period has expired with the re-opening of McKinley's doors.

The only notable absences are Richard Miller from the football team, and Blaine.

Other student activities resume mid-week. Student council spearheads the movement, its members turning up by mutual, unspoken consent on a Tuesday morning in the same empty classroom that they've always met and settling into their seats. Tina reads off the minutes and Sugar reviews their budget while the others listen attentively, offering neither comment nor criticism once the ordinary and unchallenged are complete. They sit in silence, looking to one another for guidance, until at last Sam clasps his hands and opens the conversation with a question about the prom date. They seem surprised and relieved at his audacity, not only by being the first to speak but by sitting at the head of the table, back straight and hands held solidly in front of himself as he listens.

No one tells him to move, but they all know that it's Blaine's chair.

Classes are different. The teachers adopt an air of cooperation, working with formerly unruly students one-on-one to ensure their graduation (be it from one year to the next or from the school entirely). They teach in broader terms, assigning little or no homework and focusing on the classroom itself as the primary learning environment. For the first time that any of them can truly recall, they are engaged, receptive, and - alert. None can deny that, either, the way glances stray inevitably to open doors, closed windows, even down hallways too congested to navigate easily. They're rattled, and it shows, even though no one dares speak it aloud.

And no one mentions the empty seat at the front of the room, nor inquires after its owner once the bell rings and the pattern prevails. Sam knows, though, and he doesn't need to read the attendance list to know which name is absent.

The cafeteria remains largely untouched by the violence, bringing together hundreds of students in an environment that doesn't encourage such negativity to prevail. There is laughter and chatter and idle things here, a break from solemnity that feels like a breath of fresh air. Marley has the table saved for them, already engaged in a light conversation with Tina and Sugar about their plans after graduation.

It seems a world away to Sam, thoughts of graduating and leaving McKinley forever. Even a week ago on Thursday morning, he would have gladly contributed his woes about the interminably long weeks ahead and doubtless intensive coursework to come. Blaine acted as a sound board for him at times, letting him ramble off his plans for the future as well as just ideas for how to spend their last summer together.

It was a happy time, but Blaine isn't here anymore, and Sam doesn't want to think about summer plans.

Figgins gathers them for a late-afternoon assembly that day. No one voices much protest, and the auditorium is silent long before Figgins stands behind the podium. To their surprise, he doesn't begin by hushing them, instead addressing them directly with a letter that he unfolds.

"We regret the horror that you have endured," he finishes, "and we will fight to ensure that it does not happen again."

No one applauds. It seems wrong to, somehow, and Sam knows that empty words from empty places - be it the homeless man down the street offering his condolences or the president himself - don't change the fact that they're missing one.

They aren't whole.

Richard Miller's absence is a relief, the removal of a potent body in a helpless pool of students. No one grieves for his disappearance, his trial pending and his sentence unclear. Even the football players that once regarded him as close as a blood brother express no remorse at his departure, offering only silent looks around them, trying to pinpoint the other, the victim of the crime.

Sam hates that. He hates that Blaine's name appears in local papers alongside Richard Miller's, a casualty of school shootings. He hates that people don't want to talk about Blaine, that they try not to even think about it if they can (even though it is completely, utterly impossible to do so). He hates that no matter what happens from here on out, to the rest of their small town world, Blaine is a victim, that poor kid that was shot when Miller flew off the handle and brought a gun to school.

He doesn't say anything about it, and no one asks.

Glee club practice rolls around for the first time that week on a sunny Friday afternoon. They meet in the auditorium just after the final bell, gathering on the stage itself.

It helps to stay away from the choir room. There are two chairs there that Sam knows are unfilled now, side-by-side in a sea of familiar faces. It's still theirs, and it always has been, whether they perform individually or as a whole or in pairs or however fancy strikes. It doesn't feel right to be in it, though, knowing that they've lost one of their own.

"Hey," Tina says, standing next to him near the shadows and nudging his shoulder with her own. "What are you doing?"

The others are already moving to form a circle, and while Sam doesn't know what they're up to, he finds that he doesn't particularly care, either. Their regionals' competition is just around the corner, but he didn't win it back alone, and now Blaine isn't even there to reap the rewards of their efforts. It seems wrong to accept the opportunity without him, to stand here and pretend that everything is normal when it's not.

"Come on," Tina urges, tugging on his arm. He obliges, moving away from the curtains and shuffling over to the empty space between Ryder and Brittany, mimicking their postures by sitting cross-legged. He waits for someone to speak, to start singing, to do something. No one does, looking at each other, at no one, at nothing in silence until Mr. Schuester returns with a cardboard box.

"When David Karofsky tried to commit suicide last year," Mr. Schuester explains, already reaching into the box and holding up a small white candle before handing it down to Jake, "we met to talk about it." He starts walking around the circle, passing out white candles as he goes. "Most of you probably don't even know him now. He graduated last year. I've heard that he's doing well." Sam takes the candle that Mr. Schuester hands to him, turning it over idly in his hands. When he passes the last one on to Brittany, Mr. Schuester plucks one out for himself and sets the box aside, the others now watching him attentively, curious and somewhat disarmed by the inherent morbidity of the speech.

"I know that . . . this wasn't what any of us were expecting this year," Mr. Schuester continues, pulling out a lighter and wordlessly lighting his own candle. At a simple gesture, Kitty hands hers over and he lights it as well. Mr. Schuester does the same for Joe's before reaching out when Jake slides his candle over to him. Their huddle is small enough that it doesn't take long before all the candles are lit, their tiny flames offering a sort of calming light in the dark. "We were hoping to round up with a regionals' win and a nationals' victory." Looking around at them, he adds quietly, "We can still do that, but that isn't why we're here today.

"Today we're here because we almost lost one of our own."

He pauses to let the words sink in, and Sam looks at the closed spaces between each of them, imagining Blaine sitting between them instead. Looking down at his candle, he pushes the thoughts aside, listening to Mr. Schuester talk.

"We are . . . incredibly fortunate that it wasn't a fatal shooting," Mr. Schuester says. It seems hard to admit it as anything remotely fortunate, but Sam doesn't protest, doesn't say what he knows they're all thinking. "But that doesn't mean that we don't feel its effects. In a way, we really have lost one of our own."

Sam stares down at the flickering flame of his candle, his eyes roving around the circle to the other candles, and he knows that it's true. Blaine will recover, but it will take time, time that they don't have. Regionals' competition is less than two weeks away. If they make it to nationals, then they'll have an additional month to prepare. Blaine can't perform with a shoulder sling, and Kurt's already informed him that it'll take at least six weeks before they'll consider removing it, three months for minimum shoulder restoration.

"Blaine is still a part of this family," Mr. Schuester asserts. "He's still one of us, and hopefully we'll be able to welcome him back soon." After a long, contemplative pause, he adds, "He won't be able to perform, so it's up to us to pick up the slack. I know we only have ten members, but the band has agreed to help us out, so we'll qualify for the competition." Looking around at them, he says seriously, "This is your year. You built it together again, and we're not going to let that fall apart. We're going to do this."

They nod, tentatively meeting each other's gazes, seeking guidance, understanding, something. It isn't until Marley speaks that Sam knows what they were looking for.

"To Blaine," she says, lifting her candle a few inches off the ground in a solitary toast. "Because he kept us together when we were falling apart."

"He helped get us back in the competition," Jake chimes in beside her, lifting his own candle and setting it back down.

"He's my best friend," Tina adds, mirroring the gesture.

"He was the first tolerable co-captain of the Cheerios," Kitty quips, almost dryly, as she lifts hers and sets it down again.

It's quiet for a time, the revelations sinking as Sugar adds that he appointed her treasurer of the student council and Joe points out that he introduced him to the interfaith paintball league.

"He saved my life," Brittany admits, once Unique, Ryder, and Artie have had their say.

Sam can't help but stare at her for a moment, the others doing the same. He tries to picture it in his mind, coming up with blurry images in half-formed hallways, one moment normal, the next chaotic. He remembers Brittany's levelheadedness, her surprising calmness in the face of unreality, able to operate in a world that was turned suddenly, inexplicably upside-down.

It occurs to him, then, that she knew where the bullet came from, and where it would have gone if Blaine had not been there.

He reaches over and silently squeezes her knee.

"Mine, too," is all he says. He waits, leaning back and glancing at the others as they look back expectantly, before holding up his own candle and adding simply, "He's a good guy."

"He is," Marley agrees, and as the two of them lower their candles, the first and last to do so. Sam knows that Blaine's status as leader won't change, even if the power has shifted onto their shoulders. He is an inherent part of them, but he's no longer their strength, their solidarity, and Sam knows it.

We're holding down the fort, he reflects, looking around their circle.

"Thank you, guys," Mr. Schuester says.

It takes a long time for the candles to burn out.

* * *

"Hey," Santana says, knocking back on the doorjamb to the loft as she steps inside. She's happy to be back in the big city after a week away. As nice as it was to see Brittany again, there is something homey about New York that she can't find in Lima anymore, and she can't say that she misses the small town much. She misses Brittany, but she misses Brittany all the time, and she's learned to deal with it by doing other things. Living. Living is the key to overcoming the agony of constant separation.

Dropping her solitary bag on one of the chairs, she adds lightly, "Did you miss me?"

Berry doesn't respond, curled up in a blanket on the couch, re-watching Mamma Mia. Santana doesn't need to ask to know that she's been crying; the tears are gone, but her eyes are still somewhat glassy and red.

"Why the long face?" Santana asks, shrugging out of her coat and setting it on the back of a chair. "I wasn't gone that long."

"Brody and I broke up," Berry admits, her voice slightly strangled. Santana opens her mouth to remind her that moping about the hairless wonder doesn't solve any of their problems when she continues, "And I know it's terrible to be upset about it because I know what happened in McKinley, but - "

"Stop," Santana orders, sitting on the chair across from her and looking at her seriously. "What happened at McKinley was terrible," she agrees. "Everything is allowed to be upset about it. But - " she holds up one finger importantly, " - that doesn't meant that all of our other problems are magically solved and don't matter anymore.

"Yes, Brody was a creep and you're much better off without him, and I would rather be baking a cake honoring the fact that you two are finally, irreversibly separated, but that doesn't mean that you're not allowed to be upset about it." Softening her tone a little, she adds, "The shooting happened, and it was terrible, but the only way we're going to be able to move on from it is if we accept that we're allowed to be upset about other things. You can't just make this the end-all punishment."

Berry stares at her as if she can't believe the words that she's hearing, trying to comprehend how the two can be possible. It's been hard for Santana to accept, too, the idea that they can still complain about traffic and noisy room mates and cold coffee after what happened at McKinley. But it's true, and they can't deny their own daily grievances because something bad happened to one of their own, or else they'll go insane.

Coming to the same conclusion, Berry lets out a heavy breath and admits, "You're right."

"Of course I am," Santana says without missing a beat, smiling almost lightly as she gets up and retrieves the girlfriend pillow Kurt bought her. He won't be coming back until Monday at the earliest, so they have at least one weekend to themselves; Santana isn't sure if she's looking forward to the extra time alone in the loft or dreading the hours spent with solely Berry for company. "I'm always right."

"I am glad you're back," Berry adds. "It's a lot lonelier without you and Kurt."

"Hummel will be back next week," Santana assures, fluffing up her girlfriend pillow a little.

"How is he?" Berry asks, tentative and uncertain.

"His boyfriend was shot," Santana says bluntly. "How would you feel?"

Berry says nothing for a time, the upbeat dance numbers doing nothing to lighten the mood. At last, she asks slowly, "They're together again?"

"For now," Santana agrees.

She doesn't mention that she doesn't know how things will go once Kurt returns. It's easy to fall in love with the idea of being back with someone at close range, but separated by hundreds of miles and limited to only a few minutes of interaction a day at times. . . .

She doesn't know how he'll respond.

But she knows that he can't return to Adam and pretend nothing happened this time. She won't let him, if nothing else, and if things work out and they still end up being a couple, then . . . she won't interfere.

Somehow, she doubts it, recalling Kurt's expression after she hugged him before leaving for New York. Agonized came closest to describing it, uncertain what the future held and which path he should take.

"They're definitely together for now," Santana finishes.

Berry nods and says nothing.


	12. Chapter 12

Kurt doesn't want to leave this.

He struggles to detach himself from it, to remind himself that this - all of it, no matter how wonderful or intoxicating - is a part of his past. While the temptation to renounce his New York life and return to Lima is tempting, he knows that he wouldn't last a week at a community college before he started tearing his hair out from frustration. He'd tasted freedom, and giving that up would be harder than giving up a part of his soul.

Still, it was hard to convince himself that his place was in New York when Blaine was right here, asleep underneath him. Kurt had been wary at Cooper's admonitions not to put too much pressure on the wound and no direct contact, but Blaine had held out his good arm expectantly until Kurt crawled wordlessly onto the bed beside him. Blaine's pain medication was still around the clock, a new dosage coming on the heels of the last one, and as fatigue soaked into him Kurt could feel Blaine's muscles relax, his chest deflate with a heavy exhale. He pet his side absentmindedly as he waited for him to drift off, not wanting to intrude in the healing process.

He hadn't meant to come over - the old New Directions were all eager to see him one last time before he left, Sam and Artie and Tina all sending him separate texts asking when he might be around - but something had nagged at him. Some unspoken need went unsatisfied even when he pulled up to the Anderson residence and knocked on the door. It wasn't satiated until he curled up beside Blaine, wary of his right shoulder but also inexplicably, inexorably happy to be this close to him again.

Something ached in his gut as he realized that the last time Blaine and he had been this close was at Mr. Schuester's wedding reception. They hadn't lingered, then, not savoring the afterglow as they normally did. Kurt was on his feet almost before he'd caught his breath, hurrying to pull on his under clothes before slowing once he realized that Blaine wasn't trying to stop him. He wasn't sure he felt about being watched and noticed and noted but not restrained. A lump lodged in his throat, halting conversation until at last Blaine broke the silence, casually dressed and cross-legged, with a cheerful, "Tell me we're not back together now."

Kurt hadn't known what to say, then. He'd wanted to tell Blaine that no, they weren't, and they never would be, because Blaine had broken their trust and it couldn't be replaced. Imagining a future without Blaine - or with Blaine as only a tasteful side effect of a loose friendship - made him queasy, though, so he didn't state it aloud, not daring to.

The alternative was almost as difficult to accept. He hadn't crawled back into Blaine's arms and kissed him and agreed that yes, he was forgiven and now they could go back to being them. It wasn't that he wasn't inclined to - he desperately wanted to reclaim that part of his life - but he couldn't force himself to move. He couldn't lie to Blaine and himself, because he knew that he wasn't ready to accept that, and he wasn't sure if he ever would be.

Feeling the smooth, solid weight of Blaine's chest rising and falling underneath his cheek now in gentle repetitions, he can't imagine a life without him.

It had seemed easy enough, for a time, to absorb all the wonders that New York had and forget that Lima ever existed. None of his new co-workers or acquaintances knew about the bullying that he had endured back at home, and his ideas were received with fresh, critical eyes, a blank slate presented for decoration. He'd loved meeting people like Isabelle and loathed encountering Rachel's new 'friends,' but overall, he wouldn't trade it.

There might be early mornings when he had to rush in to work without a coffee and barely presentable and feel that he would rather be in Lima, teasing his hair into the perfect coif and selecting a more neutral outfit from his wardrobe to wear to school. At other times, juggling meetings with Isabelle and quasi-meetings with Carmen Tibideaux made him long for the days when adult supervision was minimal and the most intimidating force to be found was Sue Sylvester (granted, Kurt considered her to be easily the most intimidating person that he had ever met, but at least his encounters with her were brief and sparse).

Still, there were times when he would curl up in a comfortable nook in one of NYADA's extravagant hallways and read for hours, pleasure or assigned, and not realizing that any time had passed as he switched between one assignment and the next.

His workload was comparatively minimal - he only had time between Vogue and NYADA for two courses - but it still kept him busy almost around the clock. He'd learned how to cut seconds off his time when taking calls by not hanging up the receiver and timing his lunch breaks with a quiet, late afternoon shift rather than the middle of the day. His quota was already higher than most of the other interns, falling just underneath two other hopefuls as the deadlines for more permanent higher closed. Isabelle might have a say in the ultimate decision, but he'd needed the hours to confirm his usefulness, to back his claim and make the decision more reliable.

He winces at the thought of the missed days. In the heat of the 'finals' preparation, he wanted to spend as much time as possible proving his competency while classes were off: instead he sent Isabelle an email and corresponded with her at least twice a day since. She's sympathetic: she's seen the news, heard the whole story, and all she wants is for him to be sufficiently calm and collected before he returns.

He thanks her for her concern and promises to work harder to compensate, even though he isn't sure if he'll actually have the time to.

If he squeezes more time in on the weekends, then he might be able to still catch up to the other interns, to close the gap until it's less noticeable - or, ideally, invisible. It would mean sacrificing time to complete his class work, but he was already ahead in both courses, and if he scrunched his free time, then he wouldn't have to lose anything at all.

A soft snuffle reminds him that it isn't just himself that he has to take into consideration. He turns a little, reaching out for Blaine's hand and lacing their fingers together. He doesn't squeeze, not wanting to wake him, but Blaine's eyelids flutter open anyway, a soft, sleepy smile curling his lips as he looks down at Kurt.

"When did - " He licks his lips, starting over with a quiet, "When did you get here?"

"About an hour ago," Kurt says, looking down at his watch. It's early - not even three in the morning - but Cooper was still awake when he knocked and, even more surprisingly, let him in. He'll have to return to his own home to collect a few forgotten items, things he never took with him in the first place but wants to take now, but for now, he doesn't want to waste his last few hours sleeping alone.

He only realizes how presumptuous that is when Blaine stares at him in brief, baffled silence, his thumb gently rubbing over Kurt's knuckles. Kurt is about three seconds away from apologizing and excusing himself when Blaine murmurs, "I'm glad you're here."

His gut twists even as a smile curls his lips, replying softly, "I'm glad I'm here, too," even as Blaine's eyelids slide shut again, his breathing evening out.

He's not loopy, not happy and giggly and a little bit more teasing than usual as he was before his eye surgery, almost a year ago now. He's tired, mostly, but underneath the fatigue Kurt knows there is still residual pain, fear and uncertainty warring with each other in spite of assurances - casual, indirect, presented intellectually to erase all traces of personal attachment - that McKinley is safe, that his own home is safe.

Kurt aches having to leave him at all, even knowing that Blaine is capable of coping with this. He knows that Blaine has been through worse before, but suddenly the thought of Blaine having to endure anything alone makes his stomach twist.

He's not gonna be alone, a quiet voice interjects. Cooper's here, and your dad and Carole and Finn, and his friends.

Kurt shifts a little closer when Blaine tugs on his hand, trying to reassure without words that I'm here, I'm here, I'm here.

Two months. Two months, and then it'll be summer and they can breathe again, because Kurt will be back in Lima and Blaine will be in Lima and they can relive their last summer without the suffocating worry about how they are going to cope and survive and live without each other.

Because they won't have to, anymore. Blaine will come to New York - he'll get into one of the local colleges or he'll simply move in and find a job like Kurt did - and they'll live together and everything will work out.

Even knowing that it won't - can't - be that simple doesn't quell Kurt's longing for it. He wants that, the stability, the knowledge that he doesn't need to wait for Blaine, that he doesn't need to linger over the fact that every party and meeting and social event that he attends is something that Blaine inevitably misses out on. He wonders, absently, how many of those events he might have taken Blaine to if they hadn't broken up, how many times Blaine would have visited if he had had a standing invitation.

Don't, he chastens himself. Don't dwell on what could have been.

Blaine's breathing remains soft and even, lulling, and after an incalculable time, Kurt joins him in sleep.

* * *

The next day is a solemn affair.

Kurt wakes early enough that he has time to sneak out before Blaine's even begun to stir and swing by the Lima Bean for his first coffee of the day, returning with both his and Blaine's in hand. By the time he slips back into Blaine's room, tapping on the doorjamb once to announce his presence, Blaine's eyes are open, his brow scrunched a little in pain before he relaxes at the sight of Kurt. They sit on the bed together, cross-legged with coffees in hand, and let the silence prevail, only occasionally interspersing questions with brief answers, when's the flight?, how long?, when are you coming back?

Kurt hesitates at that, glad that he has his coffee as a distraction. Blaine doesn't push him, letting him drink and mull before he responds at last, "Classes end in eight weeks. My internship lasts until the beginning of May before they consider taking on full-time positions."

Blaine nods once and says nothing. His jaw is a little tenser than before, his hands clasped tightly around his coffee, and Kurt offers to grab him his pain medication before he shakes his head.

The unspoken doubt in his eyes prompts Kurt to speak, setting his coffee down on the nightstand and waiting until Blaine meets his eyes before saying, "I'm not going to accept, even if I'm offered one." Eyebrows raised, Blaine's mouth opens a little to protest before Kurt continues, unrelenting, "I know that it's ... an incredible opportunity. And I would love to be a more invested part of Vogue dot com, I really would. But...." He pauses, choosing his words carefully before saying, "I wouldn't be able to experience NYADA fully. And I want to do that."

Blaine's quiet for a time, at last clearing his throat and asking, "So it isn't because of ... me?" Wincing, he hastens to correct, "I don't want you to do something that ... might affect your future because you think it would affect ... ours."

The way he says it, halting and uncertain, doesn't make Kurt flinch or lose his resolve. He likes the way it sounds, our future. And he appreciates that Blaine is offering him an out, a way to quietly accept the possibility of working at Vogue during the summer without upsetting him.

But Kurt knows it would upset him, and he doesn't want to lose a summer with him, either. As it is, the reality that he has to fly back in mere hours hangs over him, a solid weight bearing down on his shoulders, making each word a little more difficult to say, a little less easy to hear.

"I'm coming back," he promises, looking at Blaine and willing him to understand. "I'm going to finish up the semester and wrap up my internship and ... then I'll be home."

Blaine nods once, his voice faltering a little as he asks, "What about Adam?"

"I'll talk to him," Kurt promises.

A bit of the shine leaves Blaine's eyes, then, as he nods once, resigned. Kurt doesn't know what he's thinking - it's harder to, now, since they've been apart for so long and changed so much - but he's getting better at reading his expressions, and he can see the terseness, the hurt.

"Hey," Kurt insists, nudging his knee against Blaine's. "Look at me?"

Blaine obliges, a shadow of pain flickering past before he stares back, resolute.

"I'm not going back to him," Kurt insists, resting a hand on Blaine's knee and squeezing it. "I can't be with you - I can't be in love with you, and still try and date him. It's not fair. To either of you."

Blaine looks down, reaching for Kurt's hand and gently squeezing it. Kurt squeezes it back.

"I'm going to miss you. A lot," Kurt admits.

"I'm gonna miss you, too," Blaine replies, looking up at Kurt and smiling weakly. "But I'm ... I'm really glad you came back."

"Me, too," is all Kurt says, leaning forward to hug him, or rest his cheek on his good shoulder, or just breathe him in for a minute, and kissing him instead.

Blaine kisses back, and something inside Kurt ... calms. Something eases. Something comes invariably, irrevocably undone. Kurt doesn't protest, doesn't think for a moment about pulling back and saying that maybe this is too soon, too much, too close -

He doesn't do any of this, though, because Blaine kisses back (and thank God he brushed his teeth while Kurt was away; although Kurt doesn't think he'd care either way), and that's all that matters to him.

* * *

"Oh, hey, Kurt."

Adam's bright, ever cheerful voice makes Kurt's heart rate quicken as dread threatens to paralyze him. He has to do this, he reminds himself, the allures of the big city oddly muted after his brief encounter with Blaine that morning. It seems a world away, an oasis he can no longer touch as the real world pulls him back in; want to he might, he can't return until he's done here, until he's learned to survive here and keep the red thread holding him and Blaine together taut.

"You look dashing as ever," Adam beams, stopping three feet away to look him over. He has an armful of folders and Kurt absentmindedly wonders what he's been doing while Kurt's away, what sort of places he's been and people he's met and things he's done. Almost as quickly as the notion to ask rises in him, it dies, replaced by a reminder that he doesn't need to know, anymore. It doesn't matter to him.

He wonders if Adam ever felt the same way about him returning to Lima for Mr. Schuester's failed wedding.

He doesn't ask.

"I didn't expect to see you back today," Adam prompts, setting the papers down on one of the chairs in the dance studio. Kurt doesn't know what lead him here in the first place - he hasn't even taken any dance courses yet - but he likes the airy feel to it, the expansiveness and comfortable solitude. He could spend hours here practicing and moving smoothly from one dance routine to the next, letting the music propel him along. It seems a safe haven, detached from the hustle and bustle of life in New York and similarly separated from the shark-invested waters of NYADA.

It's a good place to meet, he decides, as he leans back against a railing and lets Adam close the distance between them, halting once he's in the center of the room.

"I'm sorry it took so long," Kurt admits, and he hates the way that Adam relaxes, a dismissive, "Don't worry about it," on his lips before Kurt cuts in with a quick, "I can't ... lie to you any more, Adam."

Adam's smile fades, the wrinkles around his eyes smoothing out as he asks, "What do you mean?"

To his credit, he doesn't falter, doesn't lose the brightness, the cheerfulness. Kurt hopes that he can keep that, at least, that he doesn't become disillusioned by this.

Why would he?

It isn't scathing or cynical or even particularly dry. Adam and he know each other, true, and they're - boyfriends, he thinks, but they're not exclusive, and Adam's never expressed an interest in being exclusive if it meant that he could have any part in Kurt's life - but they're not each other's firsts. Adam has had other boyfriends, and Kurt knows, somehow, that he won't be anything more than an embellished footnote once the hurt dies down.

It's calming. Soothing.

It gives him the courage to say, "I'm still in love with Blaine."

Silence. For the first time, he thinks that he's genuinely struck Adam speechless. He stands stock still in the middle of the floor still far enough that Kurt could easily walk around him and depart without waiting for a response. He doesn't do that, though, because Adam deserves this much, he deserves to know, and watching his jaw work and his shoulders straighten a little all seems to be a part of the process.

At last, without any particular heat or malice, Adam replies, "I know."

"Adam, I'm so - "

The word catches in his throat, and he's grateful that Adam steps in, then, with a quiet, "Please don't apologize, Kurt."

He quiets, stills, lets the world settle around him.

Wavering, shaken, but not on a pinpoint anymore, as though he could slip over the edge at any moment. He feels ... solid. Stable.

Grounded, knowing that Blaine and he are - okay again. They're okay.

"I knew that you weren't really over him for ... quite a while," Adam admits, looking at Kurt with a soft, sad smile. "I should have stopped."

"Adam, it wasn't your fault," he insists, stepping forward and pausing.

Adam smiles ruefully and laces his free hand around his satchel, a wordless rebuttal.

Kurt silently retreats, and when Adam says, "Call me sometime, would you?" and leaves, Kurt doesn't follow.

* * *

Cooper doesn't leave immediately.

It surprises Blaine, at first, but he likes having him around. Even if they aren't in the same room, it's nice, knowing that someone else is there.

His parents are around but infrequently, offering lengthy explanations that Blaine dozes off to and lukewarm promises to be there as much as they're able. There isn't much to do, as Blaine alternates between reading and catching up on as much school work as he can and dozing off, and they quickly realize that their presence isn't needed more than once or twice a day.

It takes a while - almost two weeks since the shooting - before Blaine is comfortable moving around with the sling on his right arm. He joins Cooper on the couch to watch movies and help him run lines, listening to the steady rhythm of fingers tapping away on a keyboard as Cooper corresponds with his agent, securing roles and making the right apologies to excuse his time off. It's fascinating to watch, knowing that Cooper is an insider, albeit of the least important variety.

Cooper doesn't mind answering questions, either, happy to explain what auditions he's hoping to attend and what sort of minor projects he has going on. Their parents' income helps keep him on his feet during the dry season, but overall, he scrapes by fairly well on his own.

"It's all about building up a reputation," Cooper insists, still typing away. "You either become a break out star, or you start out small and work your way up."

Cooper seems surprisingly content to be a part of the latter, even though Blaine knows that he still wants to score a bigger role soon.

It's hard to let him go, especially once Kurt leaves (and it was almost impossible to let him leave) and he's left with only their parents for company.

Cooper knows it, too, as he hugs Blaine carefully, a tight grip that Blaine returns as well as he can. Their father waits unobtrusively by the car, chatting with their mother absentmindedly as Blaine and Cooper say their goodbyes at the doorstep.

"You call me if you need anything, okay?" Cooper insists, not letting him go. "I can be here in a day if I need to."

"Coop," Blaine chides, but Cooper steamrollers on, adding, "I don't care what time it is or how minor it is. If you need me, call me."

Blaine stays silent for a moment, squeezing him back a little more tightly as he answers, "I'm okay, Cooper."

Cooper nods, releasing him and adding, "I hope everything works out with Kurt," as he shoulders his own satchel once more.

Blaine smiles a little in spite of the ache in his gut. "Thanks, Coop."

He can already feel the emptiness in the house, Cooper's room spotless and almost untouched. It feels odd, now, that it's empty; but it doesn't feel as unnerving, as oppressively quiet as before. He watches as Cooper slides into the front passenger seat, their father doing the same on the driver's side, and he wonders if that is what he'll look like in another year, heading off to meet Kurt at the airport.

Some day, he thinks.

If he has to wait, then ... so be it.


	13. Chapter 13

Some days, the sun shines.

It's difficult to measure happiness by any standard forms of derivation, because it is nothing more than a series of happy accidents: good coffee, timely transportation, a pat on the shoulder at the most necessary of times. A positive word, an extended deadline, a completed project. A new friend. An old one returned.

It's good living. It's joyful, fruitful living.

As Blaine loops his bow tie around his neck and smiles in the mirror, he thinks that today might be one of those good days.

His right shoulder is still tender, but he doesn't mind, flexing it a little as he pulls his gray cardigan more snugly over his arm. Sliding his satchel over his left arm and pocketing his phone - Cooper's already texted him twice, first to let him know that he had an audition that morning for a tentative comedy pilot, secondly to apologize for texting at two in the morning - he runs one hand self-consciously over his hair before stepping out the door.

It's warm outside, and he smiles before he even sees Tina standing outside her car door, brow scrunched in worry. Both of her eyebrows lift in surprise when he steps outside, padding over to the car and sliding into the passenger's seat without a word.

They don't talk much - Glee club rehearsals, graduation, summer - but Blaine doesn't need to say anything. She darts the occasional stunned glance at him as though she half-expects him to collapse and plunge them back into a new world of pain and chaos and fear.

He turns up the radio, leans back, and says nothing. Eventually, she relaxes.

They pull up in the McKinley parking lot and Blaine lets her open his door, smiling a little in amusement as he steps out of the car. "Thanks, Tina," he says, reaching over to squeeze her hand once briefly.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" she asks, eyeing him skeptically.

"Come on," he insists, grabbing her hand and linking their fingers together firmly as he tows her along. It's a little different, left-handed, but it works and she doesn't protest, opening the door for him without a word.

The hallways are quieter, but he's used to it by now. It's only six more weeks until graduation, and with classes in full finals' lock down mode, Blaine isn't surprised that most conversations are centered around academics conflicting with personal desires. (Then again, he thinks, the vast majority of hallway conversations relate to academic conflicts interfering with personal desires.)

He's already arranged with Ms. Pillsbury to meet after school for the next four weeks or so to fulfill his requirements for graduation. It's intensive - he still has to keep up with his regular classwork, and he's only sketchy at best left-handed - but it's worthwhile to know that his summer won't be plagued with thoughts of ensuring he graduates in time to enroll in the fall term. He's already lost a year courtesy of the first Sadie Hawkins' dance he ever went to; he isn't about to lose another.

It's a short walk to his locker, Tina quietly slipping off to stop by her own. Blaine appreciates her concern, but he also likes that she knows when to step back and let him have some breathing room. Everyone's been a little edgy since his return - not that he blames them - but it's nice to be reminded that he's still . . . him. To them.

He's still Blaine.

It's grounding.

"Hey, you," Marley says, appearing in his field of vision as he shuts his locker door. Her own eyebrows arch in surprise when she looks him over, asking, "You're not - ?"

"Not anymore," he assures, sliding one hand to grip his satchel a little more tightly. He offers a smile of his own as he adds, "I'm . . . I'm ready for this."

She stares at him for another long moment before nodding once. "If you're sure," is all she says.

They walk in companionable silence to the choir room. Blaine doesn't miss the way that she lingers by his right arm, a human shield, alert and steady.

It's comforting.

The New Directions don't notice it, at first. Marley and he slip into the room largely unseen and unnoticed, Sam in the midst of an engaging argument with Artie and Unique about set list challenges. It was hard not to be present at their regionals' competition, but he was there to savor the heady feeling of victory, nonetheless, and just being around them is . . . it's enough. It's enough to make him feel like this was something that was worth sacrificing his old life at Dalton for.

Sliding into his usual seat in the front row, he watches as Sam and Unique toss ideas back and forth, at last settling on an agreement to disagree when Sam's eyes flicker up and meet Blaine's and he halts mid-conversation.

The others quickly notice, too, if the silence of the room is anything to go by.

"We don't have to have solos," Blaine pipes in, aiming for nonchalance. "Vocal Adrenaline was at its strongest when it worked as one cohesive unit."

No one responds. Blaine isn't expecting it, but he can feel the tension ratcheting upward in the room, fearful of the unknown.

"You're not wearing a sling," Sam says slowly, breaking the silence. For a moment, Blaine thinks that Sam expects him to keel over at the realization, as though he'd somehow forgotten it in the morning rush and needed it to survive.

It's a good feeling to be able to say, "I know," and mean it.

Sam nods, then, and a palpable tension in the room eases.

It isn't until after everyone else has left for their next classes that Blaine approaches Sam, holding out his left fist and waiting.

Sam looks up from where he's still sitting, scrutinizing him in an instant, before reaching forward and bumping it back.

As soon as his fingers flare out before he clasps Blaine's hand in their most basic Blam handshake, Blaine knows that he's okay.

"It's good to have you back, dude," Sam says, and Blaine knows that he means more than his physical presence, that the removal of the sling was something more, a final breaking down of walls and barriers and echoes of the past.

Without it, he knows that he's vulnerable to attack - that the unspoken verdict that no one touch him no longer exists with the disappearance of his final crutch - but it's okay.

He still has Sam and Marley and the Glee club, and that's all that really matters to him.

"It's good to be back," he echoes.

Sam nods and pulls himself to his feet, walking beside Blaine to their next class.

And for the first time in four weeks, Blaine feels like things might actually be normal again.

It's new and different and imperfect, but it's theirs.

* * *

He isn't expecting Kurt to show up to nationals.

Even coming in fourth place doesn't disappoint; they're thrilled to have made it in the top five. For the seniors, it's a satisfying claim, a respectable title to walk away from. It might not be first, but coming in first is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and Blaine finds it sweeter, in a way, that it remains unchallenged. Somehow, he knows the others do as well.

Still, wrapped up in euphoria and mounting discomfort in his shoulder, he slips away from the main group and settles into a chair in the green room, pulling out his phone to text Kurt.

"Hey," Kurt says.

He drops his phone.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, looking up at him in undisguised amazement as he gets to his feet. He's smiling so much it makes his cheeks hurt, but he can't stop, and the urge to pull him into a hug and tell him how good it is to see him in person again is overwhelming. He's learned how to manage the separation - dwelling on it in small, manageable amounts, admitting but not submitting to it - but seeing Kurt again in the flesh is dazzling.

"Did you really think I would miss your nationals' competition?" Kurt asks, an almost wry hint to his tone as he closes the gap between them, wrapping his own arms around Blaine's waist. Blaine relaxes, gently curling his own around Kurt's, ignoring the red hot plume slowly encompassing his shoulder. He can ice it later - their choreography wasn't intense; he isn't too worried about permanent damage - and he doesn't want to lose this, to forget this, holding Kurt in his arms again.

"Not intentionally," Blaine admits.

Kurt scrunches up his nose a little and pulls back, expression soft. "I would never do that," he assures. Then, after a moment's pause, he asks carefully, "How mad do you think Mr. Schuester would be if I let you stay at my loft tonight?"

"Not at all," Blaine says at once, leaning forward to kiss him. "I'll grab my bag."

Kurt smiles, his cheeks a little pink when Blaine turns back to him, bag in hand.

They don't actually see Mr. Schue himself, so Blaine sends off a quick text once they're outside in the refreshingly warm city air before pocketing his phone and lacing his fingers with Kurt's instead.

"So, how does it feel to know that it's over?" Kurt asks after a time, looking over at him briefly. He has Blaine's bag slung over his opposite shoulder - his insistence, and Blaine wasn't about to argue much, anyway - and a smile on his face, his gaze directed skyward at the stars.

"It's not over yet," Blaine reminds gently, squeezing his hand. "There's still graduation."

"Mm." Kurt darts another quick look at him, unreadable, before asking quietly, "Are we . . . okay, now? As - friends, as - as boyfriends."

Blaine pauses, turning to look at Kurt incredulously. It's impossible to know what he's thinking, but Blaine doesn't think it's bad. He hopes not. "Why are you asking me?" he quips at last, softly.

Kurt seems to think for a long time, walking again for a few steps before stopping and turning to face him, saying seriously, "Because there is a moment when you say to yourself, 'Oh, there you are. I've been looking for you forever.'" Quietly, he adds, "I wasn't ready to . . . let you back into my life, before. Not . . . not completely. I didn't trust you anymore, because I thought . . . I thought you'd hurt me. Because knowing that you'd - that that had happened - " His voice gets choked, then, and Blaine wonders if he'll be able to continue before he finishes, "- it crushed me."

Blaine is fairly certain being shot again would be less painful than listening to Kurt speak, then, but he doesn't stop him, because - he can't. He needs to hear it, almost as much as he thinks Kurt needs to say it, so he doesn't interrupt.

"It took a long time for me to realize that I wasn't angry at you," Kurt continues. "And then I realized that . . . you have changed."

Blaine doesn't know what to say to that - if it's good, if it's bad, if it's not of the above - and so he says nothing, waiting, listening.

"We've both changed," he amends. He looks at their hands for a moment, still clasped, and adds softly, "I also realized that . . . I really wanted you back in my life. And no matter what I did to replace you, it never worked." Stepping closer, he asks, "Would you be my boyfriend again?"

Blaine reaches for him, already saying, "Kurt, of course I would, I love you so much, I would - " but then Kurt's kissing him and it doesn't matter that it's a crowded New York street.

They fall apart together, and Blaine isn't sure how they end up back in Kurt's loft, tucked into each other and breathing deeply. He isn't sure how someone as amazing and wonderful and extraordinary as Kurt can let him back into his life, but he knows that he won't let him go again. He won't lose this.

And as Kurt curls his fingers in Blaine's shirt, old wounds healing but not forgotten, Blaine knows that he feels the same.

* * *

_Epilogue_

Cooper sends him a text three days later.

How did it go?

Blaine smiles and writes, We came in fourth, but I think it went pretty well.

How so?

Blaine is about to respond when Kurt reaches over and casually pries it from his fingers, writing, Because his gorgeous, perfect, wonderful boyfriend came back, and hands it back.

A long pause. Blaine almost thinks Cooper won't respond at all, until his phone vibrates and a picture message appears:

Cooper, beaming, with both thumbs up. Attaboy, Blainey. And Kurt, don't let him do anything stupid while I'm gone, all right?

Will do, Kurt responds, humming as he gets up and wanders off to the kitchen to scavenge for breakfast. Blaine smiles after him, looking down at his phone when it vibrates again.

You did good, Blaine.

Thanks, Coop.

Love you, squirt.

Love you, too, Coop, is all Blaine writes, getting up and rejoining Kurt.

**Author's Note:**

> P.S. Please let me know if there are any weird coding errors in the fic! I did my best to weed them out before publication, but some will inevitably slip through the cracks.


End file.
